Once upon a time, there was a youth who did not know how to shudder, so he set out into the world to learn how. He spent days in a haunted home, filled with ghosts and creaking sounds and living corpses. Not once did he feel a single stab of fear. He awoke, shuddering, but still, he had no fear.1
When Fakir awoke, he was lying on the rocky ground. His limbs ached while his head pounded. His body was sore, but thankfully lacking any bleeding wounds. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed his temples, muttering, "Where am I?"
The only answer was the water dripping from the stalactites. One droplet slid down the pointed rock and landed on Fakir's face, spreading over his skin. With a grunt, he wiped it away and looked around. It was a dim cave of some sort, with looming stalagmites and dagger-like stalactites.
Behind him was a wide pond surrounded by wet black sand. Rotting chunks of wood spotted the edge of the water. An unrelenting chill pressed into him. Fakir stared down at his hands, eyes focusing on the lines and calluses, the hardened textures of his skin. He opened and closed his frigid fingers. Were they trembling? Was he afraid? He shook his head. No, he couldn't tell. In his chest was a looming absence, a persistent emptiness.
How had he'd gotten here? Shouldn't he have drowned? Now that must've been his curiosity, the desire for knowledge. Good thing Ahiru had returned it lest he be an empty, wandering shell. Fakir decided not to think about questions that harbored in his mind: nothing made sense in Drosselmeyer's stories. All he could do was follow along and try to survive the fate laid out for him. But this curiosity, it would help him keep moving forward.
"Your first test has begun," a sweet, high-pitched voice echoed throughout the tunnels.
What little light there was disappeared, leaving Fakir in complete darkness. He looked around in the blackness, expecting his heartbeat to quicken, for him to feel that familiar stab of fear. Nothing. Ravens and crows may have fed off the fear of men, but fear was the main thing that held people back: take it away and humans knew no limits. "Alright. Tell me what to do."
"Step forward. Continue walking until you reach the light."
Fakir cursed under his breath. Idiotic. How was he to move ahead if he couldn't see a damn thing? He did as he was told, hissing with pain whenever he bumped into a stalagmite. There was a faint crumble followed by a loud splash, making Fakir raise his eyebrows. It could've been a fallen stalactite or another monster. Hopefully the former, as he was in no situation to fight off an enemy. He continued walking, dragging one foot in front of the other, his limbs growing heavier every second.
In the distance was a faint red glow that bobbed up and down like a firefly. That should be the light the voice had spoken about earlier. Fakir ran forward and attempted to catch it. It shot forward, out of his grasp, then paused as if to say "follow me." He allowed himself to be guided by the small spark, which successfully led him around any unseen objects he could run into. Suddenly, it stopped and faded away. The area became bathed in a warm yellow light, making Fakir wince. He rubbed his eyes, which slowly began to adjust to the drastic change. Before him was a lone mill that was overtaken by plants that dug their tendrils into the walls' crevices.
The voice returned. "Sleep inside. If you successfully stay the entire night, you will be able to move on. Only the sun has fully risen above the horizon shall you be able to leave; leave any sooner and your princess will die."
Fakir opened the door, which was made from moss-covered, rotting wood. The hinges squeaked from disuse. Light shone through the small holes in the mill, making small circular patterns on the ground. There were piles of decaying logs and mossy stones. Fakir shut the door and walked to the middle, then laid down. He put an arm beneath his head to cushion it. The coldness seeped through his body despite the thick fabric of his uniform, but there was nothing he could do but close his eyes and get some rest.
Fakir awoke in the middle of the night to see hazy white figures before him. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. When they adjusted to the darkness, he realized that the figures were corpses. Eyes widening, he stood up and approached them. He brushed his fingers over one; the skin was cold and smooth like marble. The face was angular with hollow cheeks, the skin stretched that across prominent bones. The eyes were wide open and a deep brown rimmed in red.
Fakir reached up to pull the eyelids shut. Even the dead should get their rest. With a yawn, he laid back down and returned to sleep.
Slowly, the moon faded and night gave way to day. The sun in all its shining glory spread its rays across the earth as it rose far above the horizon. Fakir's eyes twitched, and he covered his face. He was tired, too tired to move. As he buried his face into his arm, an epiphany made him pause. The ground was hard, frigid, his body was cold: he wasn't in his bedroom. Gasping, the boy sat up and looked around, sighing as he remembered the day's past events. He had to keep moving. Time would pass without his presence, and he could not afford to lose another day.
"Congratulations, you've passed the first test. Pass the second one, and you will be free to leave. Follow the red road."
When Fakir set foot aside, he found that a red bricked path had indeed materialized before him. He knelt and rubbed a finger against the brick. Crimson powder stained bits of his skin. His eyes narrowed as he squinted into the distance. The path seemed to go on for miles, a ridiculous amount to travel on foot. But it did not matter.
He gritted his teeth, ignored his aching limbs, and began his way down the path that had been laid for him. Every step felt like knives stabbing his legs. Still, he soldiered on. As he walked, the bright emerald green of the idyllic landscape darkened into deep browns and blacks and the air became colder. Fakir shivered and wrapped his arms around his body. He blew on his numb fingers and rubbed them together.
A loud caw echoed in the distance, making him look up. A large crow circled overhead, scattering its inky black feathers. Then it stopped and dipped downwards, flying straight at Fakir.
A strangled gasp escaped his throat. Its wings slammed against him, talons clawing at his face and arms. Pain seared his skin. Fakir swung uselessly at the bird. Squawking, it retreated, wings fluttering violently. Inky black feathers swirled around him. Then the bird's eyes glowed red, glittering like gems. Its beak twisted and elongated, features merging together, until a human head stared back at him. It was a kindly face with a square jaw, stern lips, and soft blue eyes lined with age.
Fakir staggered back in shock. "Charon?"
The face shifted again, this one into that of a girl's. Her skin was porcelain white, set off by black hair that gleamed by raven feathers. Her blood red lips twisted into a smile. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Fakir?"
"Rue!" His eyes widened. She was supposed to have gone into the fairytale with her prince. Or was this all a lie, a sham? Had she been the Crow Princess Kraehe all along, only wanting to trick Mytho into a happy ending?
Rue laughed. The sound was high-pitched and seemed to bounce off the cavernous walls around him. Her head was still attached to the bird's body—an uncanny contrast between a human face and the tiny mass of black feathers.
Fakir lunged at the bird, his fingers tearing helplessly at it while it beat its wings against him. "Kraehe, it was you all along! What have you done?"
More laughter. Then her features shifted, replaced by wide innocent blue eyes. A smattering of freckles were dusted over her nose. She had bright red hair in stubborn curls around her braid.
"Ahiru?" Fakir released the creature.
What was this, some sort of changeling? So it must not have been Rue originally. A small pinch of guilt twisted his heart at the old animosity between them. Rue was still safe with Mytho in her happy ending. No, he had been too quick to blame her as the wicked crow mastermind. This was another force at hand, a new villain Drosselmeyer created.
"Who are these people to you?" the creature asked in the same honeyed voice he'd heard earlier. But the sound didn't seem to be coming from its lips. Rather it reverberated around Fakir, omnipresent.
The world around him spun. He felt lightheaded, his footing unsure as the ground beneath him seemed to dissolve. The rhythmic ticking of a clock and clang of creaking gears thrummed in the recesses of his mind. It was in him, beneath the earth, all around the town—the sound of the story moving along.
Fakir was enveloped in a flurry of black feathers. Pain pierced his senses—white and blinding. Then it ebbed away like water dripping away from him. His eyes closed and he fell into nothingness.
. . .
Autor was in nothingness. His mind traveled the darkness of an incorporeal realm, the emptiness between time and space and reality. He stood on a horizontal brass cog, suspended in blackness, that stretched out around him. He walked to the edge and peeked down. Below him loomed a vast emptiness. He couldn't see where it ended. Was there even one? Or would falling mean slipping through an abyss forever?
Gulping, Autor jerked back. His trembling hands went to adjust his glasses. The lenses were cracked. But he couldn't recall how that had happened. Or even remember how he ended up in this realm. Dread coiled in his gut and he attempted to steady his shaky hands. With every movement, his bones ached—like the rusted gears in him needed to be oiled.
A grandfather clock floated overhead. Drosselmeyer had owned one just like it. And in the writing study, Autor had so lovingly recreated it as to be identical. He stepped forward and ran a hand over the glass. In the glass, he could see his watery reflection, almost transparent: thick black frames, neatly combed black hair, thin lips that naturally uplifted.
Autor opened the clock and staring back at him was a mirror. It was framed in gold and made of the purest gleaming glass. But in place of his reflection was a scene unfolding before him. His body was slumped, motionless on the ground with glasses askew. But it wasn't Autor. Not the human him. Rather, it was a puppet crafted from wood, the features painted in a garish imitation of his own. A girl knelt at his side, shaking the body as though it could come to life. Ahiru—that duck girl who followed Fakir everywhere. An annoying loudmouth and yet looking at her now, the selfless caring she felt for him…
Autor's heart softened. This pureness—he could understand now what endeared Fakir to her. How this girl had saved the entire town. But Fakir, where was he? He peered desperately into the looking glass but it held no answers. He would've been at her side, even with merely half a heart. The dutiful Knight, the role the story intended for him, was burned into his nature even after he laid down his sword. The same way the Prince was forever seeking to help others at the cost of his own well-being.
"Well, well, well."
Autor turned. Gears and machinery turned around him—a clockwork nightmare as the incessant tick tock enveloped him. A spinning pendulum came to light, looming over him. It swung back and forth along with the growing clock noise. With each movement, a face formed more fully in his view. Loose skin dripped like candle wax from the man's skeletal face. Crazed eyes, yellowed and gleaming like glass, bulged from their sockets.
"Drosselmeyer," Autor uttered. The dead writer himself, the man who transcended even death in his fiction.
Drosselmeyer smiled. His teeth were large and wooden, like a nutcracker's. "Good puppets are hard to find these days! They're so fickle, taking such energy to craft. Then they always must start nonsense like getting interested in human emotions."
"What… what does this have to do with me?"
"But turning a human into a puppet, now I wonder." Drosselmeyer's full form appeared before Autor. He was swaddled in a giant crimson cape with a green lizard design trailing the fabric. He wore a long, deep green vest over billowing purple sleeves and heeled leather shoes that clacked on the metal cog while he sauntered over to Autor.
"No…" Autor stumbled back. He'd wanted a role in the story. Craved one, in fact. Ached to be something more than a mere side character for all his knowledge and research and information. But not like this. Not like a puppet, a tool.
"Oh, but I have a debt to collect."
Drosselmeyer cackled and loomed closer. His gloved hands, disembodied, larger than life, flourished in the darkness. His hands snapped and a sharp pain stabbed through Autor. Holes pierced this skin. Glittering strings appeared from thin air, yanking on his limbs. Autor was jerked into a dance, spinning mechanically as his body was contorted into ballet positions. His glasses clattered uselessly to the floor.
"You remember your father, don't you? I'm sure he's told you of the story-spinner who saved him as a boy."
"My father?" Autor gasped. Fear choked the rest of his words out of him. He trembled and it only made the searing pain of puppet strings all the worse.
"A shame he's dead now. But I still have a debt to collect."
1 - Based on The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was, a German folktale adapted by the Brothers Grimm
