I guess I'll just jump right into this one. I hope you enjoy, and feedback is greatly appreciated!
Happy reading!
Curse of the Dragon Chapter 12
Story: The plot of a narrative or dramatic work.
Ahiru awoke, still on the small bed, one hand clenched in her lap and the other resting at the base of her neck where her pendant used to be. The events of the previous night flooded back to her.
She guessed from Fakir's reaction that it was meant to be painful. Biting her lip, she clenched her eyes shut and resolved to prepare as much as possible for whatever agony that was to come.
After everything the Wyvern villagers went through, it was the least she could do.
"Ohhhhh…!"
Ahiru's gaze snapped up to see wide blue eyes and a head of mint green hair standing at the doorway. "Good morning-zura!" Ahiru couldn't help smiling as Uzura toddled to her side and climbed onto the bed, drum hanging behind her. For a long moment, the little doll-like girl stared up at the redhead, scrutinizing her. Then, she placed a small hand on Ahiru's face. "Are you sad-zura?"
"Ah…a little," Ahiru admitted, smiling sadly, "But I'll be fine. Everything will be okay." She reached up to tap Uzura's nose. "And soon, you'll be able to see the sky. I promise."
An excited grin stretched across the little girl's pale face. "Then Mommy will wake up-zura? And then we can play outside-zura?"
It felt as if something lodged its way into Ahiru's throat, and suddenly the urge to cry rushed back full-force. "Ah…" Whatever Ahiru meant to say came out as a strangled sob. I won't be able to see the sky for myself…Never again.
This time, both of Uzura's hands found its way on Ahiru's freckled cheeks, squishing them together until her lips resembled those of a fish. Uzura pouted, her tiny eyebrows drawing together. "No crying-zura!" She released Ahiru's face, leaped off the bed, and began beating her drum as she rushed out of the room, little feet tapping on the stone floor. "Uzura will make you feel better-zura!"
She came scampering back mere moments later, carrying a large, brown box that must have been twice her size, the drum once again hanging near her back. Her face was not visible over the large package she lugged in her small arms.
Ahiru blinked. "Uzura! Isn't that heavy? Don't you need help?"
Uzura made no reply and simply dropped the box before the bed. Her small hands lifted the square lid, tossing it over her shoulder, and began to rummage around, almost falling right into the box.
Ahiru tilted her head, attempting to see what Uzura was doing. She leaned forward from her position on the bed.
Then, a giant donkey popped up right in her face.
"Qua-!" Ahiru yelped, falling right off the bed and landing hard on the stone floor. Pain rippled from her bottom from the impact. As she tried to slow her hammering heart, she stared at Uzura, eyes wide as saucers. The little girl wore a large donkey head over her face, standing triumphantly over Ahiru's still-shaking body.
"Feel better-zura?" asked Uzura, her innocent question muffled from the helmet.
"Wha-wha-what is that?!" Ahiru pointed a tremulous finger at the donkey.
"Ohhhhh! This belonged to Hermia-zura!"
Ahiru climbed to her feet, thankful that the pounding in her ribcage began to slow. "Hermia's? What would Hermia want with a donkey-head?"
Uzura began drumming, still donning the donkey on her face. "I don't know-zura! But his name is Bottom-zura!" She marched around the room, small legs taking large steps, and drumming in time with her chanting. "Bottom-bottom-bottom-bottom-bottom-bottom…!"
As the little doll-girl continued her march around the room, Ahiru attempted to block out the incessant pounding by bending down to rummage through the other contents within the box.
There was a sketchbook filled with wondrous and detailed drawings of people and places, and most of them were astoundingly realistic portraits of Rue in different poses and expressions. There was a tin, white watering can with pink flowers painted on the sides. There was an antique, yet chic red lamp that seemed to glow despite it not being lit at all. There was an old wedding bouquet that wilted long, long ago, the dry petals crinkling at the touch. There was what appeared to be a handle of an old organ grinder. There was a broken clock, the cogs and springs rattling inside. There were three pairs of ballet pointe shoes: a white pair, a red pair, and a black pair (the black pair strangely had a black feather tangled within the ribbons). There were quills--all of them made from yellow duck feathers--tied together with white and red string. And there was a thick, leather-bound book that Ahiru found herself vaguely recognizing.
"Uzura, where are all of these from?" she asked, lifting the book out of the box.
The little girl ceased her drumming. "I don't know, but I found them and I like them-zura! So I kept them-zura!" She then resumed her march, but stopped chanting.
"Oh…" Ahiru ran the tips of her fingers over the leather spine, striving to remember where she had seen it before. She poked at the corners and slid her hand over the front cover, noticing that parts of it were wrinkled and cracked. It must've gotten wet in the past…
Wet. In the past.
She recalled now the moment he was shoved into the lake by Orlin, his sopping shirt clinging to his skin, pressing the book close to his chest…
This is Fakir's book!
And suddenly, Ahiru really wanted to open it and see what was written. Should I? she asked herself. I don't want to intrude…but obviously if he doesn't have this book with him, that must mean he doesn't care for it much anymore! And he probably even forgot about it! And I really do want to know the kind of stories he wrote… Feeling justified, Ahiru opened the cover to the first page.
Much to her surprise, the writing was that of a child's: the lines sloped downwards, and the letters grew larger as her eyes moved down the page. The penmanship was awkward with squiggled lines, and there was an exact two-finger space between sentences, as if the child measured it each time.
"Once upon a time there was a brave knight and he had an evil little sister who could talk to birds! The birds attacked all over the place! But the brave knight fought them and won! His parents knew that he was the better kid because he was very brave and protected them all! And the little sister cried and cried because girls cry all the time!"
Ahiru giggled and flipped a few pages ahead.
The writing had straightened out, and the shapes of the letters were more consistent, but only the top half of the page was still there, and the bottom half was ripped out. There were several spots in the margin, as if something was dripping on the page as it was being written.
"Once upon a time, two people became very ill. They died and left behind their two children. But their son had a special power, and so he picked up his quill and-"
The rest was violently scribbled out, and there were rips where the quill must have dug too deeply into the paper. That must have been when Fakir and Rue's parents passed away. Ahiru bit her lip. She knew what it was like.
She didn't know how much time had passed as she continued to peruse Fakir's book--Uzura had long-since gotten bored and scampered out of the room, calling out "I'm getting breakfast-zura!"--but still she continued on to read his stories.
"Once upon a time, there was a young dancer who fell deeply in love with a sculptor…"
"Once upon a time, there was a lovely lady who loved her flowers more than anything else in the world…"
"Once upon a time, there was a bride who was in love with one man, but engaged to another…"
"Once upon a time, there was a man who loved himself enough to save him from certain death…"
"Once upon a time, there was a cat who longed for a wife…"
"Once upon a time, there was a puppet who met a young human girl with very human feelings…"
And every breathtaking, astounding, beautiful story had a happy ending, and Ahiru was certain that, if these stories came true, those characters must have been happy for the rest of their lives.
Except the puppet. The puppet found glory instead. But Ahiru figured that reaching glory was just as good of an ending as finding happiness.
"The lake was calm, peaceful, and clear. If one stared toward the horizon, it would seem that there were two skies; the swirling whites and unending blues of the heavens reflected in the waters just right.
The boy took a deep breath, inhaling the crispness of the spring air. The sun smiled down on him and the breeze danced through his hair.
And he was frustrated beyond comprehensible belief!!!!"
The redhead bit her lip and wondered briefly if Fakir had any inkling that this page would be the last one he would write before the curse was placed upon the villagers that night. But she didn't think about it for long, for there was one last page written after that.
"He was useless.
He watched, helplessly, as his friends and family were slaughtered right before his eyes, the blood dripping from every wound and tears streaming from every eye. And it was his own power that kept them all from happiness, his own skill that imprisoned them in a hellhole for hell knows how long. He lived, day after day, resisting with all his might to tear his gaze away from his cravingly sharp sword, resisting the image of the blade slicing like butter through his chest, tracing over his hideous scar, ending all of his pain…
He resisted. And he continues to resist. Because, as useless as he is, he refuses to give up. He continues to live, and he refuses to die before that descendant's blood is pooled on the floor.
And even as he cannot make his stories come true any longer, he resolves to write one last thing that will always be set in stone. One more undeniable, unquestionable certainty.
Once upon a time, there was a failed writer who never touched a quill again.
The end."
"Hn. Idiot, it's morning and you need to eat-"
Ahiru dropped the book as if it singed her fingers. "Fakir…!" Her hands immediately flew up to cover her mouth as if it would turn her invisible.
As Fakir's eyes landed on the innocent leather book lying facedown on the floor, his pupils narrowed, emerald eyes quaking along with the rest of his body. His mouth opened slightly, and his chest began to heave up and down rapidly. His forehead began to glisten with perspiration and the color drained from his face. His hands, which were previously holding a plate of fruits and vegetables and a cup of water, dropped to his sides, spilling the contents all over the stone floor with a smash.
Ahiru didn't know whether she was frightened by him or frightened for him. "Fakir, I'm so sorry-!"
"Where did you get that?" he hissed through clenched teeth.
"I-I didn't mean to-!" she stumbled backward.
He maintained their distance by taking a trembling step forward. "You have no business with that!" Faster than Ahiru could register, he snatched the book from the floor and flung it with terrifying force, slamming it into the wall a mere few inches from her head. "Where did you get it!?" he snarled, small embers escaping from his breath.
By now, Ahiru sobbed openly and heavily, tears gushing from her eyes, the force of her breaths shaking her shoulders and interrupting her speech. "I-hic-don't know! I-I-I just found-hic-it! Hic-ah!"
At this, Fakir groaned loudly, clutching his head and screwing his eyes shut. He fell to his knees, trembling violently, fighting to keep control. The veins on his forehead and neck grew more apparent as the rest of his body began to throb. He began to writhe, pulling desperately at his hair, the muscles on his arms tensing, and his groans steadily rising into roars. Ahiru stepped back, hands covering her mouth, continuing to weep, and staring frozen with horrified, wide blue eyes as the emerald-eyed dragon began to transform…
When he let out one more howl of absolute and utter pain, his eyes flooding with tears and displaying openly just how much it tortured him to keep in control, something inside of her chest burst, drowning her under its weight.
All she could think was, He's in pain! He needs me!
Ahiru rushed to him, placing her small hands on his sweaty cheeks and pressing her forehead against his own brow that was twisted in agony. Even as he immediately clutched her upper arms in a bruising grip, she continued to willingly stay near him, hoping against hope that her presence would do something to ease his torment. As his shuddering continued, she began to whisper to him, repeating words over and over as his trembling slowed. "It's okay. It's okay-hic-. You're okay. It's okay," she whimpered to him through her own tears.
Many minutes passed as they waited for Fakir's breathing to steady; Ahiru had no idea how long they sat there, allowing themselves to just cry.
Then, Fakir abruptly pulled away from her, scooting himself back until his back rested against the stone wall, pushing the fallen fruits and vegetables away with his arms as he went. His Adam's apple bobbed as he placed a hand over his face, bangs obscuring his eyes.
It was another while before Ahiru found her voice again. "…Fakir?"
"I have to destroy that," he said, his voice raspy and exhausted.
She blinked, rubbing away the moisture from her cheeks. "Your book?"
"I thought I disposed of it before, but I assumed wrong. Someone must have taken and kept it," he mumbled, addressing himself more than the girl before him.
Ahiru bit her lip. Why would he want to destroy it? All of his wonderful stories…! The ones about love and sacrifice and fate and overcoming all obstacles to reach that happy ending…! "You can't destroy it." she murmured, eyes pleading with him even though he wasn't looking at her.
"There's no point in keeping it."
"Yes, there is!" Ahiru insisted, "Your stories are amazing! You're such a good writer, Fakir, and I never-"
"I'm not," he interrupted, lifting his head to glare at her even through his weariness, "a writer anymore. I haven't been. Not since that night."
She knew very well what night he was talking about. And suddenly, she found herself bristled. "Just because they don't come true anymore doesn't mean you still can't write!"
His scowl deepened. "My writing abilities only brought pain and suffering to everyone around me. I left that behind three centuries ago."
"It wasn't your fault!" Ahiru honestly had no idea why she was so adamant about this, but she suddenly felt so…fervent. "You can't possibly have any responsibility for any of that! It was…" She took a deep breath. "It was my ancestor who did it. It was his fault." Ahiru reached for her pendant, and once more, it wasn't there. "Your stories…were amazing. I loved them. And they all ended so happily…
"You shouldn't stop writing, whether it's because you can't make them come true, or because you feel like it hurts people. It still doesn't make you any less talented."
Fakir's glare slowly disappeared from his face, but he showed no other emotion than that. He stared at her for a moment, emerald eyes once again clouding with conflict and lips set into a grim line. Finally, he stood.
"I gave up writing three centuries ago. There's no way in hell I'm starting again." But before Ahiru could argue, he turned and made his way to the doorway, stopping just before he left.
"But," he called quietly over his shoulder, not turning around to look at her, "you can take the book if you want. Just keep it out of my sight."
And with that, he left the room.
Ahiru stumbled to her feet and crossed the room to where the book had fallen after Fakir threw it. She dusted it off, sat on the bed, and allowed a small smile to appear on her face as she began to read the pages she skipped.
Prince Siegfried stared down from the balconies of the Chateau, gazing out at his extensive army.
General Lysander and Captain Humphrey had done well assembling them, organizing them into several divisions and formations. Their strategy was foolproof. There would be no stopping him now.
A scowl formed on the Prince's face when he felt Karon's ever-watchful presence behind him. "What?" he spat over his shoulder.
Karon jumped. "Your Majesty, I know we want to defend the capital at all costs, but…is it really necessary to destroy every single one of the Rungholten soldiers?" he asked, his voice raising pitch with every word. "I'm certain that if we simply keep our front strong, we can simply drive them away and we'll have less chance of more casualties."
Prince Siegfried did not reply.
"Your Majesty?"
"Karon. Shut up."
As his royal advisor trudged away from him, Prince Siegfried began scratching at his chest, fingers curled and the joints bent sinisterly. It had been itching for the past few days. But it mattered little.
His preemptive strike against Rungholt would surely ease whatever pains he had. And he was truly craving bloodshed at that point.
Fakir's hand tingled as it always did when he felt the urge to write.
He clenched his hand until his knuckles turned white, continuing his trek to his sister's home. Admittedly, he'd been on edge since the night before. He needed to make amends with Rue now that he was calm. And he stubbornly forced the idea away that perhaps it was that braided, freckled moron who made him feel so at peace so suddenly, with her cool soothing hands on his face, and forehead pressed against his own…
And the impulse to pick up a quill only increased with those thoughts. Already, he had a story inexplicably forming in his mind.
Once upon a time, there was a duck…
He shook his head to clear his mind of those thoughts, and continued on his way, shoving his tingling hand into his pocket.
This chapter is dedicated to my little brother--I had him write me a little story so I could see how a child his age writes, and I used his style in this. So yeah. Your sister loves you, Mikey!
Thank you all for reading!