Once upon a time, a man fell in love with a woman. And the woman fell in love with the man. As most stories go, the two faced great hardship before finally declaring their feelings to one another. Elated to learn their love was shared, they married and were excited to begin their happily ever after. But can happily really last ever after?
Vibrations travelled pleasantly across the corners of Fakir's mouth as Ahiru sighed happily against his lips. A soft giggle bubbled over and she, much to Fakir's chagrin, pulled away before nestling into his side. He couldn't believe this was his life now. He couldn't believe that for the past two weeks or so, he had kissed Ahiru more times than he could possibly keep track of—that at this very moment she lay next to him in his bed, her head nuzzled on his shoulder and her body curled into his, laughing with a quiet joy that made her eyes sparkle with mirth as she looked up at him. The corner of his lips curled upward, a lopsided grin growing on his face despite his disappointment at the loss of her lips against his.
"What's so funny?" He gently brushed some stray hairs from her forehead but let his fingers linger and trace along the side of her face.
Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, the smile still present. "Nothing."
"Oh?"
"I'm just… happy."
Fakir slid a finger along the apple of her cheek before tapping the top of her freckled nose. One of her cornflower blue eyes peeked open with a giggle. Leaning upwards, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Never one to waste an opportunity, Fakir quickly pressed his lips to hers when she pulled back.
He really, truly couldn't believe this was his life now.
Ahiru, whom he loved—god, he loved her—in his arms. He could kiss her. He has kissed her. He is kissing her. He didn't think this would ever be possible, and yet here he is.
When he pulled away from her, he pressed his forehead to hers. He sometimes felt like his face would crack from how much he was smiling lately.
"Now you're doing it," Ahiru twinkled up at him.
"What?"
"Laughing. You're laughing."
Fakir paused a moment before pulling her closer to him and burying his face in her hair. "So I am."
He wanted to stay like this forever: lying in each other's arms, stealing kisses whenever they so desired. Fakir couldn't remember a time he felt so warm, happy, and carefree.
"Fakir…" Ahiru murmured into his chest. "Don't you think we should… y'know…"
"Hm?"
"It's not that I don't like this," she mumbled.
This caught Fakir's attention and he pulled back to look down at her.
"It's just, well, I haven't been doing all my chores lately, y'know…" Ahiru screwed up her lips and avoided his gaze. He found it stupidly cute and it only made him want to kiss her more.
He pulled her back to his chest and buried his face back in her hair. "You're right."
"So…" Ahiru placed a hand on his chest. She fell silent expectantly.
"So?"
Frowning, she tapped her pointer finger against him. "Well?"
"Aren't you going to go?" Fakir asked, hiding a smirk in the fluffy depths of her hair.
"Not if you won't let go!" Ahiru huffed playfully. She tried to push away from him but he held tight to her. After another attempted push, she gave up and wrapped her arms around him. "Fine, a couple more minutes, but I do really need to do the laundry today."
He hummed appreciatively and let himself soak in every detail of the moment. This was what he wanted to pull upon in his low moments. Her sweet scent, her warmth, her arms around him, the way her soft hair tickled his nose as he breathed, the way she absentmindedly rubbed her thumb across his back—just her.
A quiet moment passed before Ahiru finally piped up, "Fakir…"
Groaning, Fakir finally pulled away. "Alright, alright." He rested his head on his pillow and ran a hand through her hair one last time while studying her face. "I do have some work in the smithy I need to get done."
"See? That makes two of us." Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment at Fakir's raised eyebrow. "I mean—obviously I don't have work in the smithy—gosh, you know what I mean, you jerk!"
Fakir chuckled and forced himself to sit up, gently pulling his arm out from underneath Ahiru as he did. Taking his cue, Ahiru sat up alongside him and threw her legs over the side of the bed before looking back at him.
"See you at dinner?" she asked shyly. Despite spending the majority of the last fifteen days and ten hours—who was counting?—either with her own lips pressed against his or curled up into his side, she still felt a little bit silly when making any kind of plans. Was she being too forward? Wouldn't he tire of her by then?
He reached across the bed and quickly pressed a kiss atop her head before standing up. "Yeah. See you at dinner."
Her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges as she grinned at him. "Alright!" She crawled across the bed on her knees and pulled him down to her level to peck his cheek before scrambling out of the room—pausing to make sure Charon wasn't in the hall first, of course—lest either of them linger any longer.
Touching a couple fingers to the spot she had kissed, Fakir allowed himself a goofy grin. He was entirely, hopelessly devoted to her. Had he not been the one so utterly taken, he would've rolled his eyes at someone so lovesick as himself. Perhaps that wasn't the case anymore. Perhaps Ahiru had cured him of such churlishness. He hated to think he was someone who had cast aspersions on something he just hadn't experienced, yet here he was.
Fakir quickly brushed his hair and pulled it out of his face, fixing whatever mess it had become while curled up with Ahiru. He stopped short of tying it back, noting how long it had gotten recently; he didn't even remember the last time he got it trimmed. Letting his hair fall over his shoulders, he rolled a small section between his fingers, contemplating the length. It had been getting in the way of his work lately, which, for him, meant it had gotten too long. Besides, was it not a new start to his life? The more he thought about it, the more made up his mind was. Not sparing it another thought, he headed to the bathroom to cut it all off.
Heat blasted in Fakir's face as he increased the airflow to feed the coke heart in the forge. He needed to be focusing on the bulk order of hooks they received, but his mind couldn't stop wandering to swords. Despite being perhaps a bit preoccupied the past couple weeks, he had spent every down moment he had while working in the smithy practicing and refining his technique. He had gotten good. So good Charon had even commented on it when he walked in on Fakir finishing up the heat treatment for a practice sword, praising its quality.
'They don't sell well in the day-to-day, but they do pretty well at festivals—if you were looking to make swords a more permanent offering here.'
Honestly, Fakir really didn't want to make a lot of swords for the purpose of selling them—though he was chuffed to have received Charon's praise, something Charon didn't go out of his way to provide—but it was like he was possessed with the need to make one perfect sword. Ever since Ahiru had brought it up… Which was probably why he felt so compelled to do it: for her. If she wanted a sword, he would make the most glorious sword for her. Maybe he would teach her to swordfight. It could be a cute couple thing—granted they hadn't quite yet gotten around to putting a label on what they were, but with how things were going Fakir was sure it was only a matter of time.
Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. It was possibly not the best idea to have klutzy Ahiru holding a sharp sword much less using it. Regardless, he couldn't shake the thought. She wanted a sword. He had to make it for her. A zweihänder was out of the question, but a broadsword or shortsword might better fit the bill. A basket-hilted sword might be the best option to protect her fingers, but—
"Pardon, young man."
Fakir's line of thought was interrupted by an older couple entering the smithy. He stepped away from the forge and wiped his sooty hands off with a rag. "How can I help you?"
The strangely familiar looking man approached him. "We're here to pick up our order; Charon said it would be ready today. Some cutlery and candlesticks."
"For our hotel restaurant," the lady added. The glowing embers of the forge reflected in her glasses as she smiled kindly up at him.
"Ah. One moment." Charon had mentioned the large custom order was paid for and ready to go out today. He disappeared into the back before reemerging with a large box. "There's another box and they're pretty heavy. Are you going to be able to get these back to your place, or would you like me to deliver them for you?"
Gesturing to a dolly Fakir hadn't noticed before, the man shook his head. "If you could just put them on here for us, we can get it home on our own. Hotelier's code: always be prepared."
"How sweet of you to offer!" the woman praised him.
Fakir waved it off as he set the box down and opened the top. "Go ahead and check the order while I get your other box."
By the time he returned with the second box, the couple were marveling over the fine detail in the handles. They had a simple yet refined design with rippling twists down the handles which then curved back towards the necks. The candlesticks were forged with the same design elements.
"Oh, these are exactly what we wanted!" The woman enthused, turning a knife over in her hand. "You and Charon always do such nice work!" The man nodded in agreement.
"Thank you." He hoped they weren't going to spend too much time talking about the product—he always felt so uncomfortable nodding along and trying to make small talk as customers praised the work. What else could he possibly contribute beyond saying 'thanks' to everything they say?
"You know what—we're planning on debuting our new décor this weekend. Why don't you and Charon come for a meal on us?"
Fakir hemmed. "We wouldn't want to put you out…"
"No, no!" the woman dismissed. "Not at all! We insist! You all should get to enjoy your craftsmanship. And we always have live music on the weekend, so it'll be a real nice time."
"Alright, dear. Let's not keep him from his job."
The woman laughed. "Oh, okay. Well, make sure you come this weekend! Charon knows where it is if you don't." She shifted out of her husband's way as he navigated the loaded dolly out of the smithy.
Fakir nodded a farewell. "I'll let him know about your invitation." Perhaps giving Charon a break from cooking would be a good thing—though Charon had never been one for going out.
He sighed, resisting the urge to run his dirty hands through his hair—something he couldn't stop doing since he cut it—and set back to his work, hilt designs running through his head.
Ahiru rocked back on her heels and wiped her forehead off with her forearm. It was getting to be more on the chilly side of October, but even so, vigorously scrubbing clothes along a washboard was enough to work up a sweat. She stood with a groan, wringing water out of the freshly cleaned shirt before she hung it up on the line. Standing back, she regarded the shirt thoughtfully as it swayed in a slight breeze. Now that it was getting decently cool, she probably needed to start hanging the laundry in the backroom instead of outside. Maybe if she didn't have her head in clouds, daydreaming about Fakir, she would've realized it was a touch too cold to be drying the clothes outside before she hung them up. She groaned again, realizing she would probably need to remove all the clothes from the line and hang them back up inside.
"Ugh, fine," she grumbled under her breath as she set about taking them down and tossing them in a clean basket. At least she finished cleaning everything. With a grunt she heaved the now full basket up—why were clothes so heavy when wet?—and waddled back inside.
Putting the clothes back up didn't take too much time at least. Ahiru had gotten quite adept at laundry since she took it over. She inspected one of Charon's work shirts closely as she hung it up, making sure there were no stubborn stains that she had missed. She grinned triumphantly once she was certain there weren't and set about hanging up the final piece of laundry. She loved feeling like she was useful. She loved that in her own way she had become part of a family.
A sudden coldness washed over her, starting in her scalp and pouring down her neck to her chest until she felt like she was gripped in a vice. She wasn't a part of a family. Charon had taken her in out of kindness, sure, but he wasn't her father. She had no one she could count on, not the way one does with a family. Ahiru didn't even know what it was like to have a family. She didn't remember ever having parents of her own, she didn't know if she had siblings, she didn't know if she was wanted. Hell, she didn't know if she was more than just a figment of Drosselmeyer's imagination brought to life—a thought that had quietly haunted the recesses of her mind ever since it first occurred to her.
Her fingers curled unconsciously around the edges of the pants she held in her hands, clenching so tight she could feel the bite of her nails in her palms through the fabric. Why couldn't she be someone who mattered? Who belonged? Why did everything always have to be taken away from her? She sneered as she tossed the pants over the rack with far less care than she normally would have before heading back out to the washtubs.
As she started to tip the last tub out, she caught her reflection in the water. With vacant eyes she stared at the gleaming stone around her neck. Ahiru cocked her head curiously before looking down at her actual necklace.
The pendant was black.
Dimly, it occurred to Ahiru that she should care—that this was concerning—but she couldn't find it within herself. Without another thought, she tipped the tub over to dump out the water. She watched as the water from this tub joined the water from the other, forming a large puddle in the grass.
It was suddenly very clear to Ahiru that nothing mattered.
"Ahiru?"
Nothing.
"Ahiru." Fakir repeated, setting a hand on her shoulder.
"What?" Her voice had an edge to it.
Fakir's brow furrowed, concern lacing his voice. "Are you okay?" He leaned his face closer to hers, bending so he could look in her eyes.
The feeling of his warm breath on her cheek jolted her out of whatever reverie had taken hold of her. "Huh?!"
"Are you okay?" he repeated.
Ahiru blinked and shook her head. The cold, gripping sensation that had consumed her seemed to dissipate in the presence of his warmth, leaving shivers in its wake. "Y-yeah, sorry!" She couldn't possibly let him know what had just happened—she didn't even know what had just happened, but the last thing she wanted was for him to worry about her. She offered him an apologetic grin. "I was just spacing out."
Fakir was unconvinced. "Are you sure?"
"Ye—" Ahiru gasped when she finally looked at him "Your hair!"
Fakir blushed. Straightening up, he ran a hand through his now-short hair. "Ah, it's been getting in the way lately." His worries Ahiru wouldn't like the change made him forget his earlier concerns about her demeanor. It had been a long time since he made such a dramatic change to his appearance.
With wide eyes, Ahiru reached for his face, pulling him closer to her own so she could inspect it better. Not much had changed about his fringe, but the neck and sides had been shorn up almost to the skin. A goofy grin stretched her lips. "You look so different!"
A small part of her mourned that she wouldn't be able to tangle her fingers in his long locks anymore, but this style… It showed off the defined muscles of his neck and really drew your attention to his eyes. She quite liked it. Biting her lip, she let go of his face and looked away as blush crept upon her cheeks. "It looks good."
"Yeah?" A cocky, lopsided smirk stretched his lips in response.
Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck. Curse his stupid sexy smirk with his stupid sexy haircut. How was she supposed to function when he looked at her like that?! "Y-yeah. I mean, you always look good."
An eyebrow shot up at that. "Always?"
He took a step closer to her and Ahiru swore her head would explode. Oh no, oh no, oh no! She was not prepared for this. Sure, they had kissed a bunch at this point, but she would never be ready for just how alluring he could be when he put his mind to it, and she swore he knew it, too.
Fakir traced her jawline with his thumb, curling the rest of his fingers under her chin. This particular position had never ended well for Ahiru. What was it with him holding her chin that just set her heart on fire? With his face was getting closer, Ahiru's tongue darted deftly across her lips, wetting them in anticipation. How did he make every kiss feel like the first?
When his lips finally pressed against hers, Ahiru hesitated only a moment before she snaked her arms around his neck and took the opportunity to run her fingers through his short hair. The slight prickle of the shorter strands was strangely pleasant, and Ahiru found herself tracing patterns along the base of his skull.
Pulling back, Fakir leaned into her fingers slightly, his eyes still closed and a soft smile on his lips. "That actually feels kinda nice."
"Oh?" Ahiru titled her head as she continued her ministrations.
"Hm." Fakir rolled his head forward and pressed his forehead against hers. "I missed you."
Ahiru laughed, closing her eyes. She would get used to this and all the emotions that come with it eventually. She would. In the meantime, though, it wasn't the worst. "We were just together this morning; how can you miss me already?"
Fakir kissed her forehead before pulling away from her. "Feels longer, that's all." As much as he wanted to hold her in his arms forever, he wasn't quite ready to tell Charon anything yet. He bent over and collected the empty washtubs for her. "Speaking of, are you done with your chores yet?"
Oh, she could see his shoulders very well from behind now. Ahiru hadn't realized how toned they had gotten—it made sense with all the smithing he does lately, but now she could really see it.
"Ahiru?"
"Iwasn'tstaring!"
Fakir looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. "What?"
And there go her cheeks again, damn it all. She shook her head. "Nothing! Just, uh, thoughts, y'know?"
"Right. Thoughts." Fakir shot her an amused look before turning his attention back to putting away the washtubs.
Ahiru squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment. She was the least smooth person in existence and there was no way he didn't know she had been checking him out.
Fakir absentmindedly ran his fingers along Ahiru's braid, staring blankly into the darkness of her room. They had fallen asleep in each other's arms again, but something had stirred him from his sleep at an ungodly early hour. The sun hadn't even risen yet. And though he should probably return to his own room, he didn't want to wake her—at least, that's what he told himself. Deep down, he knew he really just enjoyed the warmth of her body next to his and the weight of her head on his chest. Despite that, and his best efforts, he wasn't falling back asleep.
So, as they were wont to do, his thoughts wandered—to Ahiru, of course, because where else would his thoughts wander?
He still couldn't believe that this was his life now. That Ahiru—adorable, sweet, goofy Ahiru—was lying in his arms. That he had kissed her. That she had wanted him to kiss her. Sometimes it felt like more than he could handle. He wanted to stay like this forever and luxuriate in the moment.
And it was becoming a problem. He had no self-control around her: he wanted to spend every minute of every day with her, and he would if she would let him. His desire to be with her was distracting him from figuring out what Drosselmeyer was up to, and, worse, from figuring out a way to save Ahiru from him.
As much as he tried not to think about that fateful day after they went to the pizzeria—the way she slid her fingertips feather-light up his arm, the way she splayed the fingers of her other hand across his chest, the way she stared up at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, the way she pulled him closer—again, tried not to think about that day, he also knew he had to. She wasn't herself at all, which she even admitted she wasn't in control of herself.
And the day before yesterday, when he found her outside by the washtubs, just staring at the ground… she didn't look right. She looked almost like she was empty, completely devoid of the essence that makes her Ahiru. When she finally responded to him the bite in her voice had a level of harshness he had never heard from her before. And he just let himself get distracted with her flattery and adorable pink cheeks. One would think he was too old to be acting like a hormonal teenage boy, yet here he was. Letting his desire to kiss and hold her distract him from what was really important. Even now a small voice in his head railed against the notion that kissing Ahiru was not important—God, he had to get his priorities straight.
Tentatively, he maneuvered his fingers around the ridges of her braid and brushed them against the black cord of the necklace she wore. Clearly the pendant was the crux of what was happening to her. The day Ahiru opened up about Drosselmeyer and the deal she had made with him, she said she had been collecting fragments, and when Uzura had been in Goldkrone town, he saw a fragment go into her pendant himself. After Ahiru's reveal, Fakir had a strong suspicion whatever these fragments were was what was affecting her. Now that he'd seen it in person, he was certain. Knowing that wasn't of any help, unfortunately, as he still had no idea what it was actually doing to her. He wanted to take it off of her, but from their previous experiment he knew removing it even a little caused her intense pain.
Though it normally remained white, in those moments she didn't act like herself, the pendant would flash gray and each time it happened, it seemed to become a little darker. Now, during those moments, it was nearly indistinguishable from black. Was that the head all this commotion was coming to? Her pendant would turn black and then… something would happen? An uncomfortable pit began growing in his stomach. If it were a natural escalation of what had been happening, he didn't like the implications. Moments of her acting uncharacteristically cold or even completely emotionless were increasing in frequency as of late. Even in the past couple of weeks, when they spent almost every moment together, he had noticed her eyes and expression darken and grow vacant. He'd always been able to shake her out of it by getting her attention, but it concerned him all the same. Was that the goal? To make her some empty, lifeless doll?
Fakir shuddered.
Despite all of his research, he had yet to be able to find anything that seemed like it would be of any help. All his attempts at taking over the narrative had proved ineffectual. Why couldn't he write about her? When he couldn't write about anyone else, he could always write about her—why was he failing her now, when it mattered the most? He's never felt more useless; what good was his ability if he couldn't use it to save the person most important to him?
Ahiru had made a deal, she said, to become Princess Tutu again and collect these "fragments"—that was the price she paid to become a girl again. As much as Fakir adored Ahiru, he knew she was being too naïve about this. The real price she was paying was whatever those fragments were doing to her. If he was right that Drosselmeyer was aiming to make her a lifeless doll… Then what was he going to do to Ahiru once that was achieved? An image of Edel flashed across his mind. Make her a puppet, like Edel? But to what end? Drosselmeyer was mad, but there usually was a method to his madness. Some greater cause—specifically a tragedy. Was Ahiru becoming his puppet really the great tragedy Drosselmeyer dreamed of? It didn't seem grand enough.
No. Regardless of what Drosselmeyer was aiming for, he wasn't going to let Ahiru fall victim to it. If the blackness of Ahiru's pendant was an indicator of Drosselmeyer's success, then he couldn't allow Ahiru to collect any more fragments. Maybe carrying on the way they have been was the best way to protect her, then. Okay, maybe that was a little bit of the hormonal teenager talking again, but he might be on to something there. If she was with him and distracted, she couldn't collect any more fragments, right?
But how realistic was that? Ahiru had simply… jetéd away from him when the bookmen were after her. She had even blocked him from interfering while they attacked her with those godforsaken vines. And with Uzura… with Uzura she hadn't even needed to transform. The fragment entered the pendant when Ahiru was simply Ahiru. That on its own was concerning. To his knowledge, never before had Ahiru been able to collect a fragment, or heart shard, without becoming Princess Tutu. What could that possibly mean?
All Fakir had was question after question and not a single answer. How was he going to protect Ahiru when he had no clue what was going on? Yet another question.
Fakir rested the palm of his free hand on his forehead. Why was he always so useless?
"Mm, Fakir?" Ahiru's soft murmurs were slurred with sleep.
"Did I wake you?"
With great effort, Ahiru shook her head the slightest bit.
After a moment of intense internal debate, Fakir decided to take the chance to remove himself. "Hey, I'm going to head back to my room, okay?" he whispered.
She offered a half-coherent groan in response and he carefully extricated his arm out from under her. Gently, he rearranged her pillows to be more comfortable for her before sliding out of her bed.
Kissing her forehead, he pulled her blankets up to her chin. "Go back to bed."
"Hm," she agreed sleepily.
Closing the door quietly behind him, Fakir crept back to his bedroom praying Charon was asleep. He slipped into his desk chair and picked up the glass pen on his desk—more out of habit than an actual intent to write. Nothing he had tried had worked, anyway, so why should he expect anything different this time? He couldn't connect with Ahiru's feelings at all in his writing, they had become something of an enigma to him.
Sighing, he stared at the pen as he turned it around in his fingers. Ahiru had gifted this pen to him for Christmas last year. He paused. It had been almost a year since she had turned back into a girl. It oddly felt like it had happened so long ago and yet like it was just a month ago all the same. He ran a hand through his hair—he was still unused to how different it felt now—and leaned back in his chair. Was she going to be herself come this Christmas? The thought was chilling. No, he wouldn't let her lose herself. They'd see this Christmas and many more.
Fakir turned on his desk lamp and dipped his pen in ink.
Drosselmeyer closed his eyes as he took a sip of tea. He paused a moment to savor the flavor of his black tea blend before swallowing it. The constant metallic clicks of his story's gears pervaded the air, proof everything was going as it should. He set his teacup down with a soft clink and rested his elbows on the table thoughtfully. Uzura's little stunt had progressed things nicely, Ahiru was playing her part exquisitely, and his progeny was—
Something wasn't right. Frowning, the cruel man tried to pinpoint what exactly was off. He suddenly felt the compulsion to ruminate on his plot, and while he was one to relish in his tragic genius, he was not one to go over every detail in doing so. Ah, a clever ploy.
Drosselmeyer's eyes snapped open as he grinned. "Well, well, well, trying to write a story, are we?"
Fakir frowned. He had hoped to get something out of Drosselmeyer before he caught on. Trying again, Fakir dipped his pen back in the ink before placing it on his paper.
"Awfully bold of you, isn't it? Trying to use your spinning powers against me?" Drosselmeyer chuckled. "It's a shame you've set your mind against me, grandson, I think I quite like you."
With a look of disgust, Fakir crossed out the word 'grandson'. Drosselmeyer may be a distant grandparent of his, but he quite literally drew the line at him referring to them as family.
"No matter. It's all for not, I'm afraid. You won't be getting any secrets out of me. Why don't you sit back and watch a master spinner spin his tale?"
Growling, Fakir crumpled up the paper and tossed it on the floor. So much for that idea.
Fakir impatiently drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. Ahiru had gone out to spend some time with her new friend, Ari, and, unless he wanted to come off as some controlling monster, he wasn't going to stop her. He had worked hard to not go back to what he became when trying to protect Mytho. It made him anxious when they were separated, though, as he had no way to try and keep her from collecting more fragments. What if she ran into someone while she was out and that was it?
"Ah, Fakir, home alone, are you?" Charon asked as he entered the kitchen with a bag of groceries.
With an absent nod, Fakir replied, "Yeah."
"Hm." Charon glanced at him briefly before shaking his head and going about unloading his bag of groceries. "I ran into one of our customers today."
"Oh?"
Charon couldn't help but chuckle a little at this. It was so obvious the boy was barely paying attention to him. Some things never change, he supposed. "Yeah, the hoteliers who put in the cutlery and candlestick order."
"Uh-huh." Fakir took a sip from the mug he had before him.
"Were you going to tell me something about them?"
Fakir paused, his mug hovering just a hair from his mouth, as he tried to think back to which order Charon was talking about.
Charon grabbed a cutting board and knife before pulling out the chair across from Fakir and set about chopping up some vegetables for dinner. "Perhaps how they invited us to a meal at their restaurant?"
"Ah, shit." Fakir set his mug down. With everything going on with Ahiru, and also, well, Ahiru, the invitation had totally slipped his mind. "Sorry. I got distracted."
Charon shook his head, amused. "Clearly."
"I know you don't usually like going out to eat, but would you want to go?"
"I told her I wouldn't be able to make it." Charon nudged some potatoes and a peeler towards Fakir.
Taking the hint, Fakir started peeling. "Ah. Well."
"Yeah… She said it would be fine if you took Ahiru in my place."
Fakir stopped mid-peel. "What?"
Charon laughed. "As you said, I don't really care for eating out. Besides, I've been to that restaurant before and it's got more of a romantic atmosphere. You oughta take Ahiru."
"I-I—" Fakir cleared his throat and tried again, "I don't know why that would mean I should take, uhm, take Ahiru." Fakir hoped Charon didn't see the growing redness in his cheeks.
Waving a hand, Charon dismissed the notion. "Well, you never know what a little ambiance can do."
Fakir cleared his throat again in response.
Charon stood to put his chopped veggies in a pot, stopping to ruffle Fakir's hair. "Your new hairstyle makes you look so much more mature, and yet here you are acting like teenager who doesn't know how to act around a girl."
Rolling his eyes, Fakir retorted, "I am a teenager."
"Not for much longer, though." Charon responded while throwing some butter in with the vegetables.
Fakir had completely forgotten his birthday was coming up. This would be the first birthday he got to spend with Ahiru. A smile tugged at his lips.
Charon started to say something, but before he could the front door opened and closed with a bang.
"I'm hoooomee!" Ahiru sang out as if the commotion in the entryway didn't already announce it for her.
"We're in the kitchen!" Charon called out.
Ahiru peeked around the corner with a big grin. "Need any help with dinner?"
"No, no. Not today." Charon waved her off. "Fakir was just telling me about how he was going to take you to a nice restaurant this weekend."
"Oh!" Ahiru cocked her head and looked at Fakir curiously. "Yeah?"
Fakir, taken aback by Charon's blatant twisting of the truth, shot an indignant glare at his father's back. "That's not—"
"So, we're not going to a restaurant?"
Fakir ran his hands through his hair in annoyance. This was stupid. He and Ahiru were—well, they weren't dating yet, but they were romantically involved, so it's not like any of it mattered. But Charon didn't know that yet and he didn't want neither Charon or Ahiru to get any weird ideas.
Groaning, he responded. "No, we're going."
Charon smiled cheerfully over his shoulder. "It's a nice place. They have live music on the weekends, you know."
Ahiru sat down next to Fakir. "Ooh! It's been a while since we've gone out to eat! If there's live music, I wonder if there's dancing, too. Is it super fancy?"
Despite Charon's little ploy, Fakir couldn't help but smile at Ahiru's excitement. He loved the way her eyes sparkled when she was excited.
"Not too fancy, but you will want to look nice." Charon answered Ahiru's question.
"Ooh! Now that it's cold, I can wear the sweater dress Raetzel gave me!"
Fakir nudged her foot with his and flashed a clandestine lopsided grin at her. He truly cherished the moments like these that he got to spend with her and Charon—his family. She beamed back at him.
Ahiru ran her tongue along her teeth as she stared at herself in the mirror. The sweater dress that Raetzel had given her was a lovely warm gray color with soft pink stitches scattered throughout the knit around the chest and fell to her mid-thigh. With a pair of warm tights and a belt around her waist, she figured she did a pretty good job at styling it—at the very least she thought she would match the expected dress level.
She toyed with the hem thoughtfully as she leaned in closer to the mirror. Was this a date? Their first date? Would that mean they were dating? No, it didn't, right? She bit her lip. They hadn't really talked about labels. All of this was so new to her and she had no idea what she could or couldn't say within her, er, limitations. Would agreeing to be someone's girlfriend count as confessing her feelings? Honestly, she was surprised she was able to kiss him and not turn into a speck of light. Besides, they had gone to restaurants together before. This would be no different, really.
After a moment of thought, she grabbed a lip gloss off her dresser and spread a light layer across her lips. No different, sure, except for now they were something—an undefined something, but something nonetheless—and she didn't want to make a fool of herself. What if she did something stupid and Fakir realized he was way out of her league and—
"Okay, that's enough self-deprecation, I think." Ahiru reprimanded herself aloud. The last thing she needed was to get too caught up in her head. She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.
'It's just Fakir. It's just you. You and Fakir,' she repeated this mantra in her head. It would be fine.
Not wanting to give herself a chance to psyche herself out anymore, Ahiru marched out of her room and knocked on Fakir's door.
A few thumps sounded from inside his room before Fakir opened the door and, raising one arm above his head, leaned against the jamb. "Hey."
Ahiru blushed. How was he always so handsome? He wore a dark blue button up, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows, and black pants. Truly, it was an outfit she had seen him wear before, but his haircut made it look different. Pressing her lips tightly together, she made a concentrated effort to stare at his face and not his neck. "Uhm, hey!" Smooth.
"I'm almost ready to go, one moment." Fakir turned away to hide a blush of his own and grabbed a watch from his dresser. "Okay," he said after taking a moment to put it on—which was really a cover for him calming himself down. "Let's go."
"You look handsome!" Ahiru suddenly announced, her cheeks darkening. She was supposed to say that, right? That's what you did on dates. Or not dates. Whatever this was. She was pretty sure she was supposed to tell him that she thought he was handsome. Ahiru averted her eyes.
An image of a shy Ahiru dressed in her royal blue Fire Festival dress staring up at him with wide eyes flashed through his mind. She had complimented him first back then, too. Fakir gave a half chuckle and rolled his head to his chest. Things had changed since then. Even though he still felt awkward at times, something about a meek Ahiru telling him she found him attractive emboldened him. He glanced up at her and flashed his lopsided grin. Before taking a step towards her he licked his lips. "And you are beautiful."
Ahiru's mouth fell slightly open. With every intent to take advantage of her parted lips, Fakir closed the space between them and lightly grazed his knuckles along her cheek. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and lingered for just a moment, studying her eyes with a smoldering intensity, before he trailed his fingertips along her jawline. With the slightest pressure, he urged her face up towards his before he brushed his lips against hers. He tightened his other arm around her waist, pulling her close as their mouths moved in tandem and reveled in the warmth of her body pressed against his.
The telltale creak of a door opening followed by the light thump of footsteps sounded down the hallway and Ahiru jumped away from him with a startled "quack!". Her face now a brilliant beet red, she fumblingly tugged at the hem of her dress as Fakir looked pointedly away and rubbed the back of his head.
A moment later Charon peeked around the doorway. "Well, well! Look at you two! You look great!" He leaned against the door. "Are you heading out now, then?"
"Uhm," Fakir coughed, "yeah. Yeah, we're uhm—yeah. Going." He gestured toward the door.
"Just in case you forgot the directions I gave you, I wrote them down." Charon pressed a folded-up piece of paper in the younger man's hand and patted him on the back. "Well, have fun, kids!"
Fakir thanked him and, after slipping on their coats and shoes, set out for the night, walking along the curving roads hand-in-hand.
"Oh." Ahiru stared up at the Dutch gables of the large building once they arrived at their destination. "Is this…?"
Fakir looked at the directions Charon had given him and back up at the building. Through one of the doors, he could see a few people standing by a maître d' stand. "This is the place."
Ahiru glanced at him. "But isn't this where Autor lives?"
"I'm going to go ahead and guess that this is his family's hotel." Thinking back on it, he could see the resemblance between the hotelier couple and Autor; it would make sense that they were his parents. Visually speaking, anyway, as Fakir couldn't fathom how someone as cheerful as that woman could raise someone like, well, Autor.
"Or he could be renting a room?" Ahiru shot a sidelong glance over at the door of the room Autor had used to build an exact replica of Drosselmeyer's writing room. "Though, I guess that doesn't really make sense with all the stuff he keeps in there… You're probably right. Do you think we'll see him, then?"
Fakir offered her his arm, which she accepted. "I guess we'll see." He hoped not. Autor had a habit of sticking his nose in other people's business, especially when it came to Ahiru lately.
The interior of the restaurant was considerably different than the room Autor had let Fakir utilize to try and combat Drosselmeyer. Velvet wallpaper lined the walls, complimenting the well-kept hardwood flooring. Warm light was scattered across the room by a quaint crystal chandelier. It was a lovely mash-up of elegance and rustic—something that seemed like it wouldn't work on paper but was executed quite well here.
"Oh, you came!" the familiar voice of the woman who picked up the cutlery caught Fakir's attention. She stood behind the maître d' stand in a sharp uniform that didn't quite match her ebullient personality. "Charon said you'd be bringing a date." She beckoned them over. "Come, come! I already have your table ready."
Ahiru bit her lip, trying to hold back a grin. Perhaps it was a bit indulgent, but it did feel nice to hear others say she and Fakir were on a date—regardless of if this actually was one or not. Which she didn't know. Was she supposed to ask?
Indicating towards the tables, the woman looked back at Fakir. "What you made is absolutely perfect," she enthused. "They fit in with the décor like they were made for it—which," she laughed, "I suppose they were!" Looking at the spreads, Fakir had to agree. The candlesticks made an understated centerpiece that was enhanced with stylish wreaths of white, cream, and burgundy flowers. The cutlery, which was made to match the candlesticks, made it feel like the centerpiece was spreading to the rest of the table. He had to admit, he did feel some pride seeing them in action.
The woman stopped beside a table near a grand piano in the center of the room and gestured for them to sit. "I made sure to save you a table right by the piano. My son is playing tonight, and I know I'm his mother, so I'm biased, but he is very talented," she boasted with a grin. "Enjoy your evening."
Looks like they were going to be seeing Autor today. Fakir sighed. At least he would be busy playing the piano. Maybe Fakir was wrong and the hoteliers were just relatives of Autor's and he had a cousin who also played piano—though Fakir doubted he would be so lucky.
"So, you made these?" Ahiru asked as she delicately picked up her fork, rotating it in her fingers as she inspected it.
"Well, Charon and I did."
Her lips formed a little 'o' as she set down her fork and then picked up the spoon. "These are so pretty! And you did the candleholders, too?" Fakir hummed an affirmation. She looked back down at the utensil in her hand. He was so skilled. It hadn't fully occurred to her before now, but he could make things. Like thing things. Like things that you need and use and don't even think about where they came from.
And here she was, zero skills—unless you counted doing the laundry 'okay enough' as a skill. Self-doubt started coiling in the pit of her stomach.
"Your water," a waiter set glasses in front of both of them, drawing Ahiru out of her thoughts. "And your bread." He set down a tray with fresh bread rolls and herbed butter spreads before moving to the next table.
Ahiru placed the spoon back down. She wasn't going to fall victim to the weird emotions that have been storming inside of her—courtesy of Drosselmeyer, she was sure. She was with Fakir, and she was going to enjoy it.
Looking up, Ahiru's eyes met with familiar brown ones across the room. Autor froze mid-step on the way to the piano, a look of surprise coloring his face. Ahiru smiled and waved at him. "Autor is here!" Ahiru tapped the table to get Fakir's attention and jerked her head in Autor's direction.
"Great." Fakir muttered under his breath as he turned to look where Ahiru was motioning. The two shared an icy stare before Fakir turned back around.
"We should go say hi!" Ahiru started to get up when Fakir stopped her.
"Pretty sure he's about to perform."
Ahiru opened her mouth in realization. "Oh!" She glanced back towards the maître d' stand. "So that was Autor's mom!"
Fakir shook his head in amusement and handed her a roll he had spread with butter. "So it would seem."
"She's right, though, he is really good." Ahiru spoke around the roll. Between the time she had gone to the club with him, the ballet concert, and the time she spent with him in the Academy practice rooms, Ahiru had gotten decently familiar with his skills. The first few notes of his first song rang out and she closed her eyes. It had a pleasant, slightly jaunty sound to it.
The meal was delicious and seemed to match well with the theming: elegant yet simplistic. A light beet root and roast carrot salad, a clear-broth mushroom soup, and a pasta dish with a rainbow of vegetables. The music was inviting enough that a handful of couples had taken to the dance floor.
Motioning towards the other couples with his head, Fakir asked, "Did you want to dance?" Nodding, Ahiru stood up and placed her hand in his, letting him lead her to the dance floor.
The first time Ahiru and Fakir had danced together, she was certain he was a certifiable ass. She had been so mad at him for intercepting her opportunity to dance with Mytho and he manhandled her like a ragdoll and even had the audacity to call her an eyesore after practically tossing her away from him like she was trash. He forced her through each transition with a roughness that really spoke volumes to how much he disliked her—though, despite feeling like she was being jerked around the stage, Pique later told her that she had never danced more gracefully, not even with Rue. How very like Fakir to move with such poise that even in his harshness he can create beauty. Now, though, he didn't just compensate for her sometimes admittedly ungainly movements, he did so with such a tenderness it honestly made Ahiru's heart melt. If he had danced with her then how he danced with her now… Well, maybe she might've fallen for him sooner.
She could feel the heat of his hand on her waist as he led her though the steps. This… this was completely different from their first dance. He was so cold then, but now… Ahiru wetted her upper lip before swallowing. If they hadn't been in public, she might have been inspired to kiss him. In an effort to quell that urge, she leaned her cheek against his chest and focused on the beat of his heart.
"May I have the next dance?"
Ahiru started at the sound of Autor's voice. She pulled back from Fakir and realized not only had the music stopped, but a string quartet was getting ready to play. "Oh! Autor! Are you done playing for the night?"
"No," Autor adjusted his glasses, "The quartet usually plays a few sets without an accompaniment. I thought I would take advantage of the time to ask you to dance."
Ahiru blinked in surprise and flicked her eyes towards Fakir before looking back at Autor. "Oh, uhm, but—" She glanced back up at Fakir, a question in her eyes. Despite the annoyed look on his face, Fakir inclined his head to her. "Uhm, yeah. Sure," she finally said.
The quartet had already started playing by the time Ahiru had taken Autor's hand and he pulled her away. This was nothing like dancing with Fakir. His movements were very stiff as if he knew all the steps but didn't quite know how to connect them to the music.
"You told me you were a bad dancer." Autor looked down at Ahiru curiously.
"Did I?" Ahiru peered up at him.
He chuckled. "Yes, I believe your exact words were 'I am very, very bad'."
Ahiru laughed. "That does sound like me."
"I told you my piano would inspire some grace."
Ahiru opened her mouth but quickly closed it. She wanted to tell him any perceived grace was definitely on account of Fakir's skill, but it seemed a tad unkind if she were to say that after what he just said. Instead, she said, "your music is very pretty."
Usually, Autor was one to jump onto any praise given to him, but this time he responded with silence. A moment of quiet passed between the two as he mechanically worked through the steps. Ahiru could feel his muscles twitch in their conjoined hands.
"Is something wrong?"
"Ahiru, I—" Autor stole a glance at Fakir who was watching them intently from their table. He looked back down at Ahiru and saw she was staring at Fakir with a heartbreakingly affectionate smile on her lips. Closing his eyes, he gave a humorless chuckle.
"Hm?" Ahiru's eyes stayed glued to Fakir even as she turned her head back towards Autor before she finally forced herself to look away.
"Nothing." Autor shook his head. "Just wondering how you've been. Last time I saw you you were recovering from a stab wound."
Blushing, Ahiru smiled awkwardly at him. "Ah, right. I'm a lot better now, as you can tell."
"I'm glad." His own smile had a slight forlorn twinge to it.
Tracing his tongue along the bottom of his upper teeth, Fakir watched Autor dance with Ahiru in annoyance. It wasn't so much that he was jealous; Fakir was certain Ahiru had no idea Autor had feelings for her, and, if she did, he could tell she didn't return them. Ahiru had always amazed him with her ability to immediately become comfortable with others; even back when he was nothing short of cruel to her, she maintained a certain level of familiarity with him. Regardless, Fakir could tell there was a big difference in how she danced with him versus how she danced with Autor. She was kind to everyone and her smile could make you feel like you were the center of her world—but it was Fakir's fingers she'd lace hers in, it was Fakir's chest she'd rest her cheek on, it was his Fakir's arms she'd fall asleep in, and it was Fakir's lips she'd kiss. No, Fakir wasn't jealous. He was annoyed that Autor was impeding on Fakir's time with her.
Fakir's stare fell to Autor's arm around her waist, and he frowned. Okay, maybe he was a little jealous. He bit the inside of his cheek and clucked his tongue.
From across the room, Ahiru's eyes found his and he could feel his edges softening. Her lips curved into a bright crescent just for him and held his gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to Autor. Fakir smiled to himself and lowered his head. He was ridiculously besotted with her. Part of him hated that the most insignificant of gestures from her could turn him into a lovesick fool, but the much larger part of him was just happy. Happy she was in his life. Happy she was with him.
'Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves,' Fakir mentally chided himself. As of yet, they hadn't discussed their relationship. While Ahiru has confessed her interest in kissing him, she had not shared anything related to her feelings for him. Fakir was hopeful, though. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but everything considered, he felt he had a good chance.
Fakir watched as Autor twirled Ahiru away from him before pulling her back close and dipping her low. While it did irritate him a little, Fakir couldn't help but chuckle despite himself. Autor wasn't much of a dance partner: his moves were much too robotic. Ahiru, however, still danced with all her quirky charm on display. Even in the arms of another man, she shone brighter than anyone else did to Fakir.
When the dance drew to an end, Autor escorted Ahiru back to the table. She was laughing at something he had said when they reached Fakir.
"Thank you for the dance," Autor bowed his head slightly to Ahiru. "I'm afraid I have to return to work."
"It was fun! Sorry for stepping on your foot earlier." Ahiru rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously.
"It's… fine," Autor winced. He turned to Fakir and inclined his head in a sort of resigned way. "Fakir."
Once Autor had departed, Ahiru turned her attention wholly on Fakir. "Want to keep going?" she reached her hand out to Fakir, which he gladly took.
"As long as you want to." He smiled at her.
Delicate clouds of mist languidly eddied along the shoreline of an unfamiliar lake. Soft light from the moon cast almost an ethereal glow on the still water. At the center of the lake was a small island with an ornate white gazebo. This, too, seemed to glow.
From a plush tangle of long, dark grass, Fakir found himself staring at the gazebo, almost transfixed. He had no idea how he ended up here, but he couldn't stop staring at the pearlescent structure. A strong desire to go there seized him and, without much thought, he found himself wandering along the water's edge, looking for a way across.
"This way." The words were so quiet and airy it was almost as if they were made by a sigh of the wind.
Fakir started at the sound and, turning towards what he thought was the source of it, he saw a long bridge made of what appeared to be marble and silver vines which reached all the way out to the island. Ignoring the small voice in his head saying to be weary, Fakir set across the bridge. He had to get to the gazebo.
Unintelligible whispers drifted past him as he crossed. Voices that almost seemed recognizable making sounds that were almost comprehendible. It felt like if Fakir would only stop to listen, he could make out what they were saying, but he didn't have time. An urgency he didn't quite understand compelled him onwards.
Once he set foot on the island, Fakir noticed a dark figure in the gazebo, looking up at the moon. His heart stopped when he drew close enough to make out who the figure was. Facing away from him was Ahiru dressed in her Princess Tutu attire. However, her clothes were completely devoid of colors. Her tutu was white, but everything else was a deep, soul-sucking black.
"Ahiru?" Fakir rushed forward to her. Had he been too late? Was this Drosselmeyer's plan come to fruition?
At the sound of his voice, she turned to him. He stopped. This wasn't Ahiru. Her face looked like Ahiru at times, but her features would flicker eerily in and out. Around her dark eyes was a sharp black mask. Immediately, he realized he'd seen her before—in a nightmare. She was somehow even darker now than she was then.
'Am I dreaming?' Unconsciously, he took a step back.
"Brave knight," she spoke, her voice trembled and rippled much like her face did, like a composite of multiple voices speaking at once. She shook her head and faced him fully. "No, loyal writer—Is that what you'd prefer?"
Fakir eyed her uneasily before answering. "I… I don't…"
She smiled and despite her shifting features, he felt comforted by it. "Fakir, then." She approached him. "I felt your presence in the story. If anyone can stop him, it's you." Princess Tutu looked back out over the lake. "You should know that because Ahiru agreed to be a part of the story, she's the only one Drosselmeyer has any influence over. If you're going to—"
Suddenly her whole body tremored, her facial features blinking in and out of existence.
"Tutu?!" Fakir reached for her.
Just as suddenly as it started, her face returned to its normally staticky state. Panicked, she grasped his hands. "I don't have much time. The pendant—" her body shuddered again and with it her multi-toned voice became increasing disparate, sounds clashing against each other and drowning each other out, "her—" only bits and pieces of her words we comprehensible "—time—"
Princess Tutu gripped his hand tighter, and, with great apparent effort, she pulled some semblance of harmony together and spoke, "You're her last—" before she blinked out of existence and everything went black.
"Tutu?" Fakir called into the darkness. "Tutu?" Not even an echo responded. He groaned and pressed the palms of his hands to his face. "Her last what?" Hope? He sure as hell didn't feel like it. He wanted to scream in frustration. Why would the universe dangle hope in front of him only to take it away last second?
"Ahiru…" Fakir murmured piteously.
Suddenly, Princess Tutu appeared before him in the dark. Her joints were angled oddly, strings ascending from them, twinkling. A pained look flashed on her face as she jerkily reached out for him. "Fakir!" the amalgamation of voices that made up her voice ratcheted in timbre until she sounded mostly like Ahiru. "Listen to me! We don't have much time. You need to make the sword." Her body shook as her features convulsed. "Please," the desperation being expressed in an approximation of Ahiru's voice was like an icy grip on Fakir's heart, "you have to sever her strings!"
Fakir jerked awake with a gasp, cold sweat drenching his brow. Next to him, Ahiru, thankfully, slept undisturbed. He groaned and hunched over, pressing his eyes against his fists. They should probably be better about sleeping in their own beds, but with everything going on, he didn't like to be away from her. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, curling his lip in disdain at the sweat wetting his fingers. Carefully, Fakir slipped out from under the covers and, grabbing some fresh clothes, trudged to the bathroom to take a shower.
The same thought kept running in his mind as he stood motionlessly under the water's stream: He had to make a sword. He had to make a sword. He had to make a sword. Ahiru needed him to make a sword. With more fervor than ever, sword specifications and designs flashed in his mind. He needed to make a sword—so he could save Ahiru.
After showering, Fakir went straight to the smithy.
Ahiru moaned and turned over in bed. Unconsciously, her hand sought out Fakir, patting the blankets next to her in search of his warmth. A grunt of frustration escaped her when her search yielded no results. Making a face, she cracked an eye open, slamming it shut when the bright morning light hit her pupil. "Eugh." She tried a few more times before she could finally open it without any pain. The bed next to her was empty.
She pouted. It wasn't like he had to sleep with her. She had just gotten used to it, and now that he wasn't here when she woke up, she kind of hated it. Ahiru flopped over dramatically with a "humph" before she finally stretched. Fakir probably had things to take care of. It's not like they could laze about cuddling together forever. "Is this what they mean when they say the honeymoon is over?"
After getting ready for the day, Ahiru headed down to the kitchen to find Charon preparing a plate of breakfast.
"Morning, Charon!" Ahiru chirped.
Charon looked over his shoulder and smiled at her. "Good morning."
"Ooh, this bread smells amazing!" Ahiru was already biting into a warm brötchen. "Do you know where Fakir is, by the way?"
Charon set the plate he was putting together on the counter. "Y'know, it's the strangest thing. I heard a commotion earlier this morning, and, worried someone had broken in, I went to go check on the smithy. There he was, working on something. He didn't seem to notice I was there, so I just left him to it. He's been in there since."
Ahiru quickly spread some butter on her half-eaten roll.
"Actually, I was making this plate for him if you want to take it out to him." Charon gestured to the plate he set on the counter.
Having made quick work of her brötchen, Ahiru brushed off any crumbs and nodded. "Sure!" She grabbed the plate and skipped out the door.
Fakir was currently pounding away at a strip of steel that was glowing a bright reddish orange. "Hey, Fakir!" Ahiru raised her voice so she could be heard over the strikes of the hammer. When he didn't respond, she yelled louder, "Hey, Fakir!"
This time he paused his swing. "Oh, hey."
"Charon made you breakfast," Ahiru lifted the plate up a little.
"Ah, thanks. You can put it over there," he gestured towards the back of the smithy where a drafting table sat, then promptly went back to hammering the metal.
She pouted a bit before navigating through the smithy, careful to avoid getting too close to the forge, and sat the plate down on the table. On the table were a few scattered pieces of paper. Curious, Ahiru grabbed one and inspected the scribbled design on it.
Her blood ran cold when she realized what it was.
"A sword…?" Ahiru murmured under her breath. She glanced at Fakir's back. The strip of metal he was working on could easily be used for a sword. Quickly, as if she had done something wrong, Ahiru put the paper back down.
"Don't forget to take a break to eat, okay?" Ahiru called over the metallic clinking as she left. Fakir motioned that he heard her before continuing.
"He's working on a sword?" Ahiru bit her lip as she wandered back to the house. Was this her fault? "Stupid, stupid!" she chastised herself. Why did she have to go and bring it up in the first place? She knew Fakir had a complicated relationship with swords and now he was making one because she had to go and open her big, dumb, fat mouth.
Fakir barely even acknowledged her when she was in there. Was it because he was reliving some kind of emotional trauma, and now he was suffering all by himself as she forced him to do this awful task? Guilt swept over her like a torrent. Should she stop him? Why couldn't she do anything right? Why was she such a failure? She was nothing more than a burden. Clutching at the blossoming pain in her chest, Ahiru dragged herself up the stairs and into her room where she sunk to her knees. She should just disappear.
Her pendant shone black.
Drosselmeyer grinned as he watched the image of a despondent Ahiru curled up on the floor of her bedroom in his spinning gear. He sat at the head of a long wooden table with a warm cup of tea before him. Turning his attention back to his guest, he took a sip of tea before briefly raising his cup to her.
"Now, how's that for a little push in the right direction?" he crowed. When he was met with silence he sighed and set down his tea. "Everyone's a critic these days." He groaned and ran his hand down his face. "First that little whelp tries to use my own power—which he wouldn't even have if it weren't for me, I might add—against me, and then you," he glowered at his guest, "had to go and try to interfere in things." His tone became patronizing, "I don't mind a little chaos here and there, but there's no need to be revealing things too early."
At the other end of the table sat his guest: a lifeless Princess Tutu puppet.
"Oh, don't give me that look," Drosselmeyer chortled at his own joke: a puppet does not make facial expression, of course. "It's dangerous to forget your place, you know. Especially now."
He took another sip of his tea. "Aren't you going to have any? It's quite a good brew, I must say." He laughed again before turning his attention back to the image of Ahiru.
"The time is coming, Little Duck—time to make this tragedy a masterpiece."
A/N: Hiatus, unintentional is thy name. I'm back! Sorry everyone, I cannot tell you how many times I rewrote this chapter. It hadn't even been a planned chapter, but I figured y'all deserved some fluff and cheese, that and the next chapter deserves to be its own thing. In any case, it's done. I'm working on this for nano, so hopefully I don't peter out and am able to get a huge chunk of AOoaL done. Thank you everyone for hanging in there with me!
