Think Back on Yesterday, 8/?
Title: Think Back on Yesterday, chapter eight
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,904
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor, Charon, Mytho, Uzura
Summary: Everything seems to be going wrong upon their arrival at the castle.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/8/
Will be posted to paranormal25 upon completion.
Notes: I’m unsure of what to think of this chapter; it seems to jump all over the place and rely on short scenes and summarization much more than I really like to do. But on the other hand, I don’t know how else it could have been written without ridiculously dragging things out. So hopefully I’m just its own worst critic.
Chapter Eight
Autor’s thoughts were turning over in his mind as Mytho led them up the path to the castle steps. In the past he would have been fascinated by the magnificence of the story castle made manifest in the real world. Even now he would be amazed by it, if not for the fact that more pressing matters were occupying his mind and thoughts.
For Ahiru to look like something was wrong with Mytho, maybe it actually was. After all, she knew him far better than Autor did. But what could it be? Fakir had not been able to write any Stories about Mytho. So why would his Story be able to not only write about, but change Mytho now? Had it become that powerful? It was not beyond the realm of possibility, considering how forceful Autor’s own Story had grown. But if that was what had happened, things were even worse than Autor had thought.
“Um . . . where’s Rue?” Ahiru spoke up, uneasy as they began to ascend the steps.
“She’s discussing our kingdom’s problems with the neighboring towns,” Mytho said. “She should be back late tonight. We’re all worried about this latest development.” He glanced up at the black sky. “It just started getting like this a couple of days ago.”
Fakir frowned. “What else has been amiss, my Prince?” he asked.
Mytho sighed. “That’s the thing, it’s so similar to what was happening before.” He reached the top of the stairs and looked back. “People in the court are suddenly not interested in doing their work. Instead they’re wandering out of rooms with blank stares, seeming to hear something no one else can.”
“And I’m the prime suspect,” Autor concluded.
Mytho hauled open one of the heavy doors. “Right now, you’re the only suspect,” he said.
“But Mytho!” Ahiru ran over, her fists clenched in desperation. “Autor hasn’t done anything wrong!”
Mytho sighed. “I don’t know. I’m afraid you may be trusting him too much, Ahiru. He caused this once. He could do it again.”
Fakir was deeply frowning. “You say he did this before?” He gave Autor a dark glare, while still speaking to Mytho. “Why?”
“He was filled with a desire for power,” Mytho said, stepping inside the grand front hall. “He nearly caused all of our deaths because of it.”
Autor flinched. “I don’t deny it,” he said as they followed Mytho into the palace. “But I’m not responsible for what’s happening now.”
“And do you really expect we can believe that?” Mytho said.
Autor reached to push up his glasses. “No,” he said. “I guess not.”
“But it really isn’t Autor!” Ahiru cried. “It has to be Fakir’s Story. It’s come to life like Autor’s did and it’s been causing all kinds of trouble! Fakir thinks he’s Lohengrin and doesn’t trust us and everyone in Kinkan remembers Drosselmeyer’s Story and . . .”
Mytho stiffened. “They remember everything?” he exclaimed. “Before, they only recollected bits and pieces.”
“It’s everything zura!” Uzura spoke up.
Mytho blinked, noticing her for the first time. “How did you come to be here?” he asked in amazement.
“I followed Autor when he left the old man’s world zura!” Uzura said proudly. “I wanted to be with my friends again zura.” Her head lowered. “But Fakir isn’t himself anymore zura.”
“We’ll help Fakir,” Mytho assured her. Frowning at Autor he said, “And we’ll stop whoever caused this to happen.”
Autor narrowed his eyes. “Does Rue suspect me too?” he said.
Mytho hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s been speaking in your favor,” he said. “She doesn’t think you’re guilty this time. But I will be keeping a close watch on you nevertheless. I don’t want you trying to manipulate her because of her belief in your integrity.”
Before anyone could answer, he stopped in front of a long staircase. “I want to present you to the king and queen, but first you should freshen up after your long trip.” He smiled, looking more like the Mytho they knew. “I’ll show you to the rooms you can use.”
Fakir nodded. “Thank you, my Prince.”
Ahiru swallowed hard. “Yeah, thanks,” she said. Still, she could not help being unable to relax. Something definitely was not right with Mytho. And if the king and queen felt Autor was guilty too, what kind of treatment would he receive from them and from the staff?
Part of her wished she could make sure that her room would be by his so she could watch over him better, but she was afraid to ask for that. And of course, it would be both inappropriate and completely mortifying for them to share a room. But she could not ignore the feeling that Autor was not safe. What would the Story cause next? Would she be able to do anything to stop it?
The thoughts tumbled in her head, insisting on being heard.
****
To Ahiru’s relief, they were all given rooms near each other on the spacious second floor. Uzura shared Ahiru’s room, while Autor was across from them and Charon was next to Autor. Fakir was in the room on the other side of Charon’s. After a few minutes Mytho went to speak with him in private.
Ahiru frowned as she splashed water on her face. She supposed Mytho was going to see just how serious the problem was of Fakir believing himself to be Lohengrin, but she still felt unsettled. Maybe he was also trying to see how Fakir felt about Autor and if a further case could be built against him.
“I know Mytho felt okay about Autor before he and Rue left,” she said aloud to the room. “The Story must have done something! Mytho wouldn’t just change like that.”
But all things considered, it did look bad for Autor. If Mytho’s parents were convinced Autor was at fault, maybe they would have persuaded Mytho to believe it too.
No, Mytho had more of a mind of his own than that! If he felt Autor was innocent, he would not be swayed. Even when Autor had lost his mind and gotten corrupted, Mytho had been certain that Autor could not be held fully responsible for his actions. This was a complete switch.
“Is something wrong with Mytho zura?”
Ahiru turned. Uzura was standing in the doorway of the private bathroom, blinking at Ahiru with wide blue eyes.
“I’m afraid so,” Ahiru said quietly, walking over to the puppet.
Uzura frowned, looking down at the marble floor. “Is everyone going to change zura?” she asked, her voice sad now.
Ahiru’s heart was pricked. “I hope not, Uzura,” she said. “I really hope not.”
****
The next hours were filled with worried, tense conversations. Mytho spoke with Charon after Fakir, wanting to learn the situation from the point of view of their adopted father. But though Charon verified Ahiru’s words and asserted Autor’s innocence in the matter, Mytho did not seem convinced.
He was also unsure of how to handle Fakir’s insistence that he was Lohengrin. Yes, Mytho admitted, Lohengrin had been his faithful knight-but not Lohengrin the Swan Knight. Mytho’s Lohengrin had been a descendent, named after the first Lohengrin.
“Then that surely means Fakir doesn’t have the memories of your knight,” Charon said. “He thinks he is the first Lohengrin.”
“I’ve never been sure whether Fakir is Lohengrin reborn or not,” Mytho said. “But if he isn’t, he bears a striking resemblance. Now that I have my memories back, it’s almost eerie.”
Charon gave a sad sigh. “When we try to tell him he’s Fakir, he becomes defensive and angry. I was hoping he might accept it coming from you, but he might only think that we’ve convinced you of a falsehood.”
“It’s possible,” Mytho agreed, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
He hesitated. “You say Autor has been using his powers again,” he said.
“That’s right,” Charon said. “But only to try to help Fakir. He isn’t the villain here.”
Mytho sighed. “I hope he hasn’t been using them for both and only telling you part of it,” he said. “I honestly don’t know what to think of him.”
“Autor’s an honest boy,” Charon said. “Even when he lost his mind, he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t.”
“But you see, the fact that he didn’t pretend to be ‘something he wasn’t’ means that he is capable of committing wicked acts,” Mytho said.
“Everyone is,” Charon said, a bit of an edge creeping into his tone. “What happened to you, Mytho? You’re different than you were when you left.”
Mytho blinked, for a moment looking honestly confused and lost. “I . . .” He shook his head, running a hand into his hair. “I’m fine, Charon. I realize Autor wouldn’t have to be guilty, but it’s true that he’s the only suspect right now.”
Charon shook his head. “Fakir’s Story is the true enemy,” he said. “I don’t know all the details; in fact, Autor is probably the one you should go to.”
“Unless he’s fabricating stories,” Mytho said, but it sounded half-hearted.
“Fakir’s Story itself admitted its identity when it was causing trouble,” Charon said. “Both Fakir and Ahiru can attest to that.”
Mytho gave a vague nod. Now he seemed confused and concerned. What really was wrong with him? Why did he feel this overwhelming suspicion towards Autor? He had briefly thought about what Autor had done when odd things had started happening a few days ago, but when the idea of Autor being the guilty party this time around had then crossed his mind, he had pushed it aside. Yet ever since then, the idea had been growing and refusing to be silenced.
What if he really was being manipulated by Fakir’s Story? It was a frightening thought. But still, Fakir had said he would be able to live freely. Certainly, being manipulated by anyone’s Story would not be freedom. If the Story had enough power to rule over Fakir, however, couldn’t it turn Fakir’s promise null and void?
This surely could not be true. He did not feel like any of these thoughts and feelings were from a source other than his own being. Still, wasn’t that what Fakir had said about the subtlety of Drosselmeyer’s Story-that it manipulated people into believing that what Drosselmeyer wanted was what they wanted?
“I’m sorry,” he said then. “I don’t know why I’ve been so intent on blaming Autor.”
Charon sighed. “If everyone in the castle learns he’s here, it probably won’t go well for him at all,” he said. “Even if they don’t all believe he’s doing something now, they knew about the past, didn’t they?”
“Some of it,” Mytho said. “But they don’t know his name or what he looks like. I’ll do what I can to keep them from connecting Autor with the sorcerer who was putting the court into a trance.”
“If they do find out, then what happens?” Charon asked.
“Some of them will be entirely unforgiving,” Mytho said. “Autor’s safety could be in danger.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Charon said.
“I’ll have Fakir watch out for him,” Mytho promised. “He trusts me at the moment. And neither of us want to see Autor hurt, even if he could be responsible.”
Charon nodded. “What will you say to Fakir about who he is?” he wanted to know.
Mytho stared into the distance as he thought. “I’ll try to find out why he’s so set against the idea of being Fakir,” he said. “And I may try to casually show him a tapestry here that depicts Lohengrin and me. It makes it clear that Lohengrin is not the Swan Knight.”
“I hope you’ll have better success than the rest of us have had,” Charon said.
“As do I,” Mytho said. “I don’t like seeing Fakir like this. He could get himself hurt very badly.” He frowned. “And poor Ahiru. She looked terrible.”
“She’s been taking this hard,” Charon agreed. “But I can’t blame her.” The weary look in his eyes was just a hint to the pain that he himself had been suffering because of Fakir’s delusional behavior. The fact that Fakir still did not know him was a horrible blow to try to accept.
“No,” Mytho said. “I can’t, either.” He stood. “I’ll talk to Fakir again now. Goodbye, Charon.”
Charon nodded, watching the boy cross to the door. “Goodbye,” he returned.
****
Fakir had already left his room and was looking at the tapestry in question when Mytho discovered him.
“This is us,” he said as Mytho approached.
Mytho hesitated, unsure now of what to say. This had not been part of his plan. “It’s me with Lohengrin,” he said, finally determining that he would have to take the plunge. “He looks just like you, doesn’t he, Fakir?”
Fakir stiffened. “You’re not believing what these people have said,” he said. “My Prince, don’t you know me?!”
“Yes,” Mytho said, turning to look at him. “Yes, I know you-my knight, my friend, my brother. You may be the actual soul of Lohengrin alive again. That, I’m afraid I don’t know. But I can say with full conviction that you have been just as loyal to me as he was.”
Fakir took a shaking step back. “No!” he said. “I am Lohengrin, the Swan Knight. I am not this Fakir. I can’t be!”
“Look carefully at this tapestry,” Mytho said, glancing back to it himself. “It traces my and Lohengrin’s lineages. Who is depicted as Lohengrin’s ancestor?”
Fakir frowned, peering at the woven scene. But as he fully took stock of the element Mytho had mentioned, the color drained from his face.
“The Swan Knight,” he breathed, staring at the figure of a man in a boat pulled by a large swan.
He whirled to look at Mytho, his heart racing. “The tapestry has to be wrong!” he said. “I am the Lohengrin who served you. I am the Swan Knight!”
“But the Swan Knight isn’t the Lohengrin who served me,” Mytho said quietly. “Your Story has lied to you, Fakir. It’s given you false memories woven around the only Lohengrin whom you know about by name.”
“No!” Fakir retorted. His pupils had shrunk in his heightening desperation. Combined with his pale skin and gaunt features, he resembled a spectre.
“I am the Swan Knight,” he repeated, backing up further. “There’s been a mistake.”
“Are you saying that I don’t know who my knight was, Fakir?” Mytho asked.
Fakir regarded him in shock. “I . . .” He stood in contemplation, hesitating again. “No! Of course not! But . . .” He looked at the tapestry, trembling. The remaining threads of his beliefs, which he had tried so hard to hold together, were unraveling around him. Prince Siegfried was calling him Fakir as well. And the Swan Knight had been a different Lohengrin. It was too much to take in all at once.
“Forgive me, my Prince.” With that Fakir turned and fled down the hall.
Mytho gazed after him in sadness. “Where will you run, Fakir?” he wondered. “You will stop denying the truth soon, but what will our enemy do to you then?”
“I wonder,” an unseen voice sneered. “This was all part of my plan, as was him and those others coming here in the first place. After all, this kingdom is where the final stage will take place. Fitting, isn’t it?”
Mytho started and looked up as a mad chuckle echoed up and down the hall. “You . . . you sound like Fakir,” he gasped.
“And you won’t remember our meeting after this,” replied the voice.
Mytho opened his mouth to protest. But before he could utter one syllable, darkness descended over him.
****
Autor was dozing on the large bed in his quarters when a sharp knock brought him to his senses. Pushing up his glasses, he stumbled down and over to the door. “I’m coming,” he said in irritation when the knocking came again.
As he opened the door, he stared in surprise at a flint-faced Fakir. “What do you want?” he asked in both confusion and suspicion. Something was wrong; Fakir seemed still more different than he had before.
“You are going to be under surveillance,” Fakir said. “I will be watching you closely to make sure you don’t try anything foolish. But I’ll also be your savior should anyone else find out who you are and try to do away with you.”
Autor’s eyes widened, not sure what to make of these statements. “I see,” he said. “Then you think there’s going to be trouble?”
“There could be,” Fakir said. “And don’t get any ideas about using your powers.”
“No,” Autor said stiffly. “Of course not.”
Fakir turned away and Autor shut the door, his eyes narrowed darkly. So they were going to attempt keeping his identity secret, even from the king and queen? That was just as well, though he wondered how it was going to work.
My life is in danger here, he knew. But the biggest threat was still the Story. It was behind everything in the end. And the longer Fakir went on refusing to accept the truth, the more he would become estranged from them.
Autor could only pray that Fakir would never become an enemy himself.
I caused you untold pain when I was your nemesis, he said in silence as he went back to the bed. Maybe I deserve to know exactly how it feels, but Ahiru doesn’t deserve to go through that again with anyone. You had better not do that to her, Fakir.
He lay down, running a hand over his eyes as he removed his glasses.
****
The time to be presented to the king and queen came around soon enough. Quite recovered from his experience in the hall, Mytho made the rounds to each room, gathering his guests for the meeting. Each felt different; while Ahiru was jittery and worried, Autor and Charon were quietly tense, Uzura was fascinated, and Fakir felt it was an honor.
Mytho had already informed his parents of Fakir’s awkward mental state, but when they saw him and how closely he mirrored Lohengrin’s looks and actions, it was still an immense shock. Mytho had always ignored all rules about rank and class and had loved Lohengrin as his brother. Witnessing Fakir was like seeing Lohengrin restored and come home.
He introduced the others as friends and Charon as his second father, the man who had taken care of him in Kinkan Town after his years of wandering. As he was careful to not reveal Autor’s true identity, the near-sighted boy was welcomed just as much as the rest.
A large feast was prepared in their honor, for which Autor and Charon were relieved. Ahiru would at last have a decent-sized meal, something she had not partaken in for the last several days. But as they all ate and discussed the problems of the kingdom, a solution never presented itself.
Fakir was tense through most of the meal, though he tried to hide it and denied it when he was asked. When he finished eating, he promptly excused himself. Ahiru and Mytho watched after him helplessly before the king spoke and turned their attention back to other concerns.
Not only did more people leave the court each day, the king explained, and not only was the sky becoming increasingly dark, but there was an ominous, evil feeling that was slowly permeating through the town itself.
“We don’t know its point of origin or anything about it,” they were told. “Our sorcerers and magicians who haven’t left us haven’t been able to give us so much as a hint. Our only clue is the person who caused havoc and upheaval in the court before.”
Autor looked down at his plate, certain his eyes reflected his guilt at the moment.
“What if it isn’t him?” he asked. Raising his gaze he added, “He was supposed to have been brought back to his senses and recommitted to his morals.”
“That’s true,” the king said, leaning back in his seat with a jeweled goblet. “But there’s no telling if he fell back into his madness. However, you and your friends say that this Story is responsible. If that’s so, how do we stop it?”
“That’s a really good question,” Ahiru mumbled. “Fakir’s the one who wrote the Story, and he’s not in any shape to try to fix it.”
Autor frowned. They were back to where they had started. They needed to fix Fakir before the Story could be fixed, but in order to fix Fakir they had to fight the Story. It was a vicious cycle. He gripped his fork. There was only one solution, which was not really a solution at all.
“Isn’t there anyone else who could complete this task?” the queen wondered.
Autor chewed and swallowed a piece of meat. “As far as we know, there is only one other who could try,” he said. “But he’s already tried and failed.”
Ahiru whirled, staring at him with wide eyes. Of course the conversation would have come to this eventually, but how was he going to tell it without revealing his identity as the very one the kingdom reviled? She half-wanted to kick him under the table and get his attention, but she did not dare. With her luck, she would kick the wrong person.
“And who is this other?” the king frowned.
“The only other person alive who possesses the kind of power necessary to bring stories to life,” Autor said. “The very one who lost his mind in the past.”
The king sputtered. “Our only chance is to leave the world’s fate in his hands?!” he exclaimed.
Ahiru bit her lip. If Mytho were his normal self, here he would reassure his parents that it was alright. But when she looked to him, it was clear that he was conflicted. He did not know himself what to say or who to side with in the matter.
Autor shook his head. “As I said, Your Majesty, he’s tried and failed. The slightest attempt to fight the Story and restore Fakir’s lost memories results in serious injury. If he does this again, he does it under the threat of death from the Story. He isn’t a coward,” he added immediately, “but his death would be pointless. He would never be able to compose as much music as would be needed before he would be killed.”
The king passed a hand over his eyes. “Then there truly isn’t any hope,” he said.
“The only other hope is Fakir himself,” Charon spoke up. “The hope that he will remember his true self on his own.”
“And is there any chance of this?” the queen asked.
The burden grew heavier in Charon’s eyes as he spoke. “Very little, I’m afraid,” he said.
The mood over the rest of the dinner was somber and grave. Hearing the state of Mytho’s kingdom and combining that with their own side of the story left the visitors both frantic and at a loss. Something needed to be done immediately, yet that was impossible. There was nothing that could be done while they were at a standstill.
“Mytho,” Charon said to the prince as they stood after the meal, “what happened when you talked to Fakir and showed him that tapestry?”
He was stunned to receive a blank stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charon,” Mytho said. “I never did get the chance to talk to him before we were presented. And then you know he excused himself so abruptly from dinner.”
But even as he spoke, it did not sound right to him. His eyes widened as he stared into the distance.
“What is it I’m forgetting?” he whispered as if no one else was there. “I’m forgetting something, but I can’t remember what.”
And Charon’s heart sank. They were all pawns of the Story, currently in a kingdom that had once only existed in a story. It was possible that only made it more dangerous for them, especially since Fakir’s Story had concluded the Story begun by Drosselmeyer that had created this kingdom in the first place.
What were they going to do?
****
Far away from all of them, writhing in pain in a bed of hay, Fakir was digging his fingers into his scalp. He clenched his teeth, his eyes wide as the anguish raked through his soul.
He had been both in physical and mental torment for hours, ever since he had fled the tapestry in the hall. He was struggling to remember what simply would not come. The Story was punishing him for doing so. The fight had calmed down during the presentation and the feast, but his own emotional distress had left him uncomfortable and uneasy and had caused him to make his hasty departure from the banquet room. Now the Story was torturing him again.
“There will be no more of this doubting yourself,” the voice told him. “All of reality has been altered by that sorcerer boy. He has made the Prince forget the truth and planted that false tapestry. He has done all of this, with the encouragement of the girl and the man. They all deserve your hatred.”
“No,” Fakir rasped. “No. . . .”
“Do you deny me?” the voice snarled.
For a moment, fire burned in Fakir’s eyes. “Yes,” he snarled. “Yes, I deny you. I can’t trust you. I haven’t trusted them either, but maybe they . . . maybe they have been telling the truth.”
“Just because of one tapestry?” said the voice.
“No,” Fakir retorted. “Because of all the evidence stacking in their favor. The evidence I’ve been denying because of my cowardice. I haven’t wanted to let go of Lohengrin or the security of being him. I haven’t wanted to accept that I might be someone else, someone whom I don’t remember at all. But it’s time that changed.”
A translucent double of himself with an aura of green materialized in front of him. “Then it’s finally come to this,” it sneered in the same, hated voice that he had been hearing. In his hands he held a sword that resembled a writing quill.
Fakir stared. He did not understand why, but the sight of the sword and the being sent an unshakable fear into his heart. Before he had the chance to even ask what was going on, the blade slashed in his direction.
Instantly he brought up his own sword, meeting the enemy weapon head-on.
“I’ll fight you,” he vowed. “And when I win, you’ll be through.”
“You’ll be through whether you win or not,” his doppelganger sneered. “For even if you decide to become Fakir, you have no memories of that time of your life. And unless you retrieve them tonight, you will die and everyone will forget you ever existed-before they and this kingdom are destroyed too.” The creature leaned in with a treacherous glint. “And the only person who can give your memories back to you will die the moment he tries.”
Fakir clenched his teeth. “Then you admit I’m Fakir too,” he said as he strained against the blade.
“I admit nothing!” said the doppelganger. “I’m only telling you what will happen if you decide to become him.”
Fakir forced him back and got to his feet. “I won’t accept such a miserable fate!” he said. “I will learn who I am and live my life!”
The spectre gave him an eerie grin. “Far be it from me to hold you back,” it said. “I wish you good fortune in your last hours.” And with a cold-hearted laugh it vanished. Fakir was left gripping his sword, staring at the spot where the wretch had been.
“Fakir!”
Slowly he turned, hearing the now-familiar voice. The red-haired girl was running up to the stable doors, worry in her blue eyes. But when she saw him standing, appearing alright, she relaxed.
“Oh thank goodness, you’re okay,” she said.
Fakir regarded her in confusion. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “But I know you like the stable back home, so I thought I’d try.”
Fakir blinked in surprise. A slow smile stole across his features. “I see,” he said.
Surprised by his reaction, she advanced further into the stable. “Fakir? Are you really okay?” She studied him in the dim lantern light, but the shadows that danced across his face only made it all the more difficult to tell what he was thinking.
“I . . .”
Without warning the sword slipped from Fakir’s grasp. He sank to one knee, clutching at his heart.
Ahiru cried out in horror. “Fakir, what’s wrong?!” she wailed, running to his side.
He looked up at her, gritting his teeth in pain. “It looks like that demon was right,” he choked out. “If I don’t regain my memories tonight, I’m dead.”
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,904
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor, Charon, Mytho, Uzura
Summary: Everything seems to be going wrong upon their arrival at the castle.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/8/
Will be posted to paranormal25 upon completion.
Notes: I’m unsure of what to think of this chapter; it seems to jump all over the place and rely on short scenes and summarization much more than I really like to do. But on the other hand, I don’t know how else it could have been written without ridiculously dragging things out. So hopefully I’m just its own worst critic.
Chapter Eight
Autor’s thoughts were turning over in his mind as Mytho led them up the path to the castle steps. In the past he would have been fascinated by the magnificence of the story castle made manifest in the real world. Even now he would be amazed by it, if not for the fact that more pressing matters were occupying his mind and thoughts.
For Ahiru to look like something was wrong with Mytho, maybe it actually was. After all, she knew him far better than Autor did. But what could it be? Fakir had not been able to write any Stories about Mytho. So why would his Story be able to not only write about, but change Mytho now? Had it become that powerful? It was not beyond the realm of possibility, considering how forceful Autor’s own Story had grown. But if that was what had happened, things were even worse than Autor had thought.
“Um . . . where’s Rue?” Ahiru spoke up, uneasy as they began to ascend the steps.
“She’s discussing our kingdom’s problems with the neighboring towns,” Mytho said. “She should be back late tonight. We’re all worried about this latest development.” He glanced up at the black sky. “It just started getting like this a couple of days ago.”
Fakir frowned. “What else has been amiss, my Prince?” he asked.
Mytho sighed. “That’s the thing, it’s so similar to what was happening before.” He reached the top of the stairs and looked back. “People in the court are suddenly not interested in doing their work. Instead they’re wandering out of rooms with blank stares, seeming to hear something no one else can.”
“And I’m the prime suspect,” Autor concluded.
Mytho hauled open one of the heavy doors. “Right now, you’re the only suspect,” he said.
“But Mytho!” Ahiru ran over, her fists clenched in desperation. “Autor hasn’t done anything wrong!”
Mytho sighed. “I don’t know. I’m afraid you may be trusting him too much, Ahiru. He caused this once. He could do it again.”
Fakir was deeply frowning. “You say he did this before?” He gave Autor a dark glare, while still speaking to Mytho. “Why?”
“He was filled with a desire for power,” Mytho said, stepping inside the grand front hall. “He nearly caused all of our deaths because of it.”
Autor flinched. “I don’t deny it,” he said as they followed Mytho into the palace. “But I’m not responsible for what’s happening now.”
“And do you really expect we can believe that?” Mytho said.
Autor reached to push up his glasses. “No,” he said. “I guess not.”
“But it really isn’t Autor!” Ahiru cried. “It has to be Fakir’s Story. It’s come to life like Autor’s did and it’s been causing all kinds of trouble! Fakir thinks he’s Lohengrin and doesn’t trust us and everyone in Kinkan remembers Drosselmeyer’s Story and . . .”
Mytho stiffened. “They remember everything?” he exclaimed. “Before, they only recollected bits and pieces.”
“It’s everything zura!” Uzura spoke up.
Mytho blinked, noticing her for the first time. “How did you come to be here?” he asked in amazement.
“I followed Autor when he left the old man’s world zura!” Uzura said proudly. “I wanted to be with my friends again zura.” Her head lowered. “But Fakir isn’t himself anymore zura.”
“We’ll help Fakir,” Mytho assured her. Frowning at Autor he said, “And we’ll stop whoever caused this to happen.”
Autor narrowed his eyes. “Does Rue suspect me too?” he said.
Mytho hesitated, then shook his head. “She’s been speaking in your favor,” he said. “She doesn’t think you’re guilty this time. But I will be keeping a close watch on you nevertheless. I don’t want you trying to manipulate her because of her belief in your integrity.”
Before anyone could answer, he stopped in front of a long staircase. “I want to present you to the king and queen, but first you should freshen up after your long trip.” He smiled, looking more like the Mytho they knew. “I’ll show you to the rooms you can use.”
Fakir nodded. “Thank you, my Prince.”
Ahiru swallowed hard. “Yeah, thanks,” she said. Still, she could not help being unable to relax. Something definitely was not right with Mytho. And if the king and queen felt Autor was guilty too, what kind of treatment would he receive from them and from the staff?
Part of her wished she could make sure that her room would be by his so she could watch over him better, but she was afraid to ask for that. And of course, it would be both inappropriate and completely mortifying for them to share a room. But she could not ignore the feeling that Autor was not safe. What would the Story cause next? Would she be able to do anything to stop it?
The thoughts tumbled in her head, insisting on being heard.
****
To Ahiru’s relief, they were all given rooms near each other on the spacious second floor. Uzura shared Ahiru’s room, while Autor was across from them and Charon was next to Autor. Fakir was in the room on the other side of Charon’s. After a few minutes Mytho went to speak with him in private.
Ahiru frowned as she splashed water on her face. She supposed Mytho was going to see just how serious the problem was of Fakir believing himself to be Lohengrin, but she still felt unsettled. Maybe he was also trying to see how Fakir felt about Autor and if a further case could be built against him.
“I know Mytho felt okay about Autor before he and Rue left,” she said aloud to the room. “The Story must have done something! Mytho wouldn’t just change like that.”
But all things considered, it did look bad for Autor. If Mytho’s parents were convinced Autor was at fault, maybe they would have persuaded Mytho to believe it too.
No, Mytho had more of a mind of his own than that! If he felt Autor was innocent, he would not be swayed. Even when Autor had lost his mind and gotten corrupted, Mytho had been certain that Autor could not be held fully responsible for his actions. This was a complete switch.
“Is something wrong with Mytho zura?”
Ahiru turned. Uzura was standing in the doorway of the private bathroom, blinking at Ahiru with wide blue eyes.
“I’m afraid so,” Ahiru said quietly, walking over to the puppet.
Uzura frowned, looking down at the marble floor. “Is everyone going to change zura?” she asked, her voice sad now.
Ahiru’s heart was pricked. “I hope not, Uzura,” she said. “I really hope not.”
****
The next hours were filled with worried, tense conversations. Mytho spoke with Charon after Fakir, wanting to learn the situation from the point of view of their adopted father. But though Charon verified Ahiru’s words and asserted Autor’s innocence in the matter, Mytho did not seem convinced.
He was also unsure of how to handle Fakir’s insistence that he was Lohengrin. Yes, Mytho admitted, Lohengrin had been his faithful knight-but not Lohengrin the Swan Knight. Mytho’s Lohengrin had been a descendent, named after the first Lohengrin.
“Then that surely means Fakir doesn’t have the memories of your knight,” Charon said. “He thinks he is the first Lohengrin.”
“I’ve never been sure whether Fakir is Lohengrin reborn or not,” Mytho said. “But if he isn’t, he bears a striking resemblance. Now that I have my memories back, it’s almost eerie.”
Charon gave a sad sigh. “When we try to tell him he’s Fakir, he becomes defensive and angry. I was hoping he might accept it coming from you, but he might only think that we’ve convinced you of a falsehood.”
“It’s possible,” Mytho agreed, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
He hesitated. “You say Autor has been using his powers again,” he said.
“That’s right,” Charon said. “But only to try to help Fakir. He isn’t the villain here.”
Mytho sighed. “I hope he hasn’t been using them for both and only telling you part of it,” he said. “I honestly don’t know what to think of him.”
“Autor’s an honest boy,” Charon said. “Even when he lost his mind, he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t.”
“But you see, the fact that he didn’t pretend to be ‘something he wasn’t’ means that he is capable of committing wicked acts,” Mytho said.
“Everyone is,” Charon said, a bit of an edge creeping into his tone. “What happened to you, Mytho? You’re different than you were when you left.”
Mytho blinked, for a moment looking honestly confused and lost. “I . . .” He shook his head, running a hand into his hair. “I’m fine, Charon. I realize Autor wouldn’t have to be guilty, but it’s true that he’s the only suspect right now.”
Charon shook his head. “Fakir’s Story is the true enemy,” he said. “I don’t know all the details; in fact, Autor is probably the one you should go to.”
“Unless he’s fabricating stories,” Mytho said, but it sounded half-hearted.
“Fakir’s Story itself admitted its identity when it was causing trouble,” Charon said. “Both Fakir and Ahiru can attest to that.”
Mytho gave a vague nod. Now he seemed confused and concerned. What really was wrong with him? Why did he feel this overwhelming suspicion towards Autor? He had briefly thought about what Autor had done when odd things had started happening a few days ago, but when the idea of Autor being the guilty party this time around had then crossed his mind, he had pushed it aside. Yet ever since then, the idea had been growing and refusing to be silenced.
What if he really was being manipulated by Fakir’s Story? It was a frightening thought. But still, Fakir had said he would be able to live freely. Certainly, being manipulated by anyone’s Story would not be freedom. If the Story had enough power to rule over Fakir, however, couldn’t it turn Fakir’s promise null and void?
This surely could not be true. He did not feel like any of these thoughts and feelings were from a source other than his own being. Still, wasn’t that what Fakir had said about the subtlety of Drosselmeyer’s Story-that it manipulated people into believing that what Drosselmeyer wanted was what they wanted?
“I’m sorry,” he said then. “I don’t know why I’ve been so intent on blaming Autor.”
Charon sighed. “If everyone in the castle learns he’s here, it probably won’t go well for him at all,” he said. “Even if they don’t all believe he’s doing something now, they knew about the past, didn’t they?”
“Some of it,” Mytho said. “But they don’t know his name or what he looks like. I’ll do what I can to keep them from connecting Autor with the sorcerer who was putting the court into a trance.”
“If they do find out, then what happens?” Charon asked.
“Some of them will be entirely unforgiving,” Mytho said. “Autor’s safety could be in danger.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Charon said.
“I’ll have Fakir watch out for him,” Mytho promised. “He trusts me at the moment. And neither of us want to see Autor hurt, even if he could be responsible.”
Charon nodded. “What will you say to Fakir about who he is?” he wanted to know.
Mytho stared into the distance as he thought. “I’ll try to find out why he’s so set against the idea of being Fakir,” he said. “And I may try to casually show him a tapestry here that depicts Lohengrin and me. It makes it clear that Lohengrin is not the Swan Knight.”
“I hope you’ll have better success than the rest of us have had,” Charon said.
“As do I,” Mytho said. “I don’t like seeing Fakir like this. He could get himself hurt very badly.” He frowned. “And poor Ahiru. She looked terrible.”
“She’s been taking this hard,” Charon agreed. “But I can’t blame her.” The weary look in his eyes was just a hint to the pain that he himself had been suffering because of Fakir’s delusional behavior. The fact that Fakir still did not know him was a horrible blow to try to accept.
“No,” Mytho said. “I can’t, either.” He stood. “I’ll talk to Fakir again now. Goodbye, Charon.”
Charon nodded, watching the boy cross to the door. “Goodbye,” he returned.
****
Fakir had already left his room and was looking at the tapestry in question when Mytho discovered him.
“This is us,” he said as Mytho approached.
Mytho hesitated, unsure now of what to say. This had not been part of his plan. “It’s me with Lohengrin,” he said, finally determining that he would have to take the plunge. “He looks just like you, doesn’t he, Fakir?”
Fakir stiffened. “You’re not believing what these people have said,” he said. “My Prince, don’t you know me?!”
“Yes,” Mytho said, turning to look at him. “Yes, I know you-my knight, my friend, my brother. You may be the actual soul of Lohengrin alive again. That, I’m afraid I don’t know. But I can say with full conviction that you have been just as loyal to me as he was.”
Fakir took a shaking step back. “No!” he said. “I am Lohengrin, the Swan Knight. I am not this Fakir. I can’t be!”
“Look carefully at this tapestry,” Mytho said, glancing back to it himself. “It traces my and Lohengrin’s lineages. Who is depicted as Lohengrin’s ancestor?”
Fakir frowned, peering at the woven scene. But as he fully took stock of the element Mytho had mentioned, the color drained from his face.
“The Swan Knight,” he breathed, staring at the figure of a man in a boat pulled by a large swan.
He whirled to look at Mytho, his heart racing. “The tapestry has to be wrong!” he said. “I am the Lohengrin who served you. I am the Swan Knight!”
“But the Swan Knight isn’t the Lohengrin who served me,” Mytho said quietly. “Your Story has lied to you, Fakir. It’s given you false memories woven around the only Lohengrin whom you know about by name.”
“No!” Fakir retorted. His pupils had shrunk in his heightening desperation. Combined with his pale skin and gaunt features, he resembled a spectre.
“I am the Swan Knight,” he repeated, backing up further. “There’s been a mistake.”
“Are you saying that I don’t know who my knight was, Fakir?” Mytho asked.
Fakir regarded him in shock. “I . . .” He stood in contemplation, hesitating again. “No! Of course not! But . . .” He looked at the tapestry, trembling. The remaining threads of his beliefs, which he had tried so hard to hold together, were unraveling around him. Prince Siegfried was calling him Fakir as well. And the Swan Knight had been a different Lohengrin. It was too much to take in all at once.
“Forgive me, my Prince.” With that Fakir turned and fled down the hall.
Mytho gazed after him in sadness. “Where will you run, Fakir?” he wondered. “You will stop denying the truth soon, but what will our enemy do to you then?”
“I wonder,” an unseen voice sneered. “This was all part of my plan, as was him and those others coming here in the first place. After all, this kingdom is where the final stage will take place. Fitting, isn’t it?”
Mytho started and looked up as a mad chuckle echoed up and down the hall. “You . . . you sound like Fakir,” he gasped.
“And you won’t remember our meeting after this,” replied the voice.
Mytho opened his mouth to protest. But before he could utter one syllable, darkness descended over him.
****
Autor was dozing on the large bed in his quarters when a sharp knock brought him to his senses. Pushing up his glasses, he stumbled down and over to the door. “I’m coming,” he said in irritation when the knocking came again.
As he opened the door, he stared in surprise at a flint-faced Fakir. “What do you want?” he asked in both confusion and suspicion. Something was wrong; Fakir seemed still more different than he had before.
“You are going to be under surveillance,” Fakir said. “I will be watching you closely to make sure you don’t try anything foolish. But I’ll also be your savior should anyone else find out who you are and try to do away with you.”
Autor’s eyes widened, not sure what to make of these statements. “I see,” he said. “Then you think there’s going to be trouble?”
“There could be,” Fakir said. “And don’t get any ideas about using your powers.”
“No,” Autor said stiffly. “Of course not.”
Fakir turned away and Autor shut the door, his eyes narrowed darkly. So they were going to attempt keeping his identity secret, even from the king and queen? That was just as well, though he wondered how it was going to work.
My life is in danger here, he knew. But the biggest threat was still the Story. It was behind everything in the end. And the longer Fakir went on refusing to accept the truth, the more he would become estranged from them.
Autor could only pray that Fakir would never become an enemy himself.
I caused you untold pain when I was your nemesis, he said in silence as he went back to the bed. Maybe I deserve to know exactly how it feels, but Ahiru doesn’t deserve to go through that again with anyone. You had better not do that to her, Fakir.
He lay down, running a hand over his eyes as he removed his glasses.
****
The time to be presented to the king and queen came around soon enough. Quite recovered from his experience in the hall, Mytho made the rounds to each room, gathering his guests for the meeting. Each felt different; while Ahiru was jittery and worried, Autor and Charon were quietly tense, Uzura was fascinated, and Fakir felt it was an honor.
Mytho had already informed his parents of Fakir’s awkward mental state, but when they saw him and how closely he mirrored Lohengrin’s looks and actions, it was still an immense shock. Mytho had always ignored all rules about rank and class and had loved Lohengrin as his brother. Witnessing Fakir was like seeing Lohengrin restored and come home.
He introduced the others as friends and Charon as his second father, the man who had taken care of him in Kinkan Town after his years of wandering. As he was careful to not reveal Autor’s true identity, the near-sighted boy was welcomed just as much as the rest.
A large feast was prepared in their honor, for which Autor and Charon were relieved. Ahiru would at last have a decent-sized meal, something she had not partaken in for the last several days. But as they all ate and discussed the problems of the kingdom, a solution never presented itself.
Fakir was tense through most of the meal, though he tried to hide it and denied it when he was asked. When he finished eating, he promptly excused himself. Ahiru and Mytho watched after him helplessly before the king spoke and turned their attention back to other concerns.
Not only did more people leave the court each day, the king explained, and not only was the sky becoming increasingly dark, but there was an ominous, evil feeling that was slowly permeating through the town itself.
“We don’t know its point of origin or anything about it,” they were told. “Our sorcerers and magicians who haven’t left us haven’t been able to give us so much as a hint. Our only clue is the person who caused havoc and upheaval in the court before.”
Autor looked down at his plate, certain his eyes reflected his guilt at the moment.
“What if it isn’t him?” he asked. Raising his gaze he added, “He was supposed to have been brought back to his senses and recommitted to his morals.”
“That’s true,” the king said, leaning back in his seat with a jeweled goblet. “But there’s no telling if he fell back into his madness. However, you and your friends say that this Story is responsible. If that’s so, how do we stop it?”
“That’s a really good question,” Ahiru mumbled. “Fakir’s the one who wrote the Story, and he’s not in any shape to try to fix it.”
Autor frowned. They were back to where they had started. They needed to fix Fakir before the Story could be fixed, but in order to fix Fakir they had to fight the Story. It was a vicious cycle. He gripped his fork. There was only one solution, which was not really a solution at all.
“Isn’t there anyone else who could complete this task?” the queen wondered.
Autor chewed and swallowed a piece of meat. “As far as we know, there is only one other who could try,” he said. “But he’s already tried and failed.”
Ahiru whirled, staring at him with wide eyes. Of course the conversation would have come to this eventually, but how was he going to tell it without revealing his identity as the very one the kingdom reviled? She half-wanted to kick him under the table and get his attention, but she did not dare. With her luck, she would kick the wrong person.
“And who is this other?” the king frowned.
“The only other person alive who possesses the kind of power necessary to bring stories to life,” Autor said. “The very one who lost his mind in the past.”
The king sputtered. “Our only chance is to leave the world’s fate in his hands?!” he exclaimed.
Ahiru bit her lip. If Mytho were his normal self, here he would reassure his parents that it was alright. But when she looked to him, it was clear that he was conflicted. He did not know himself what to say or who to side with in the matter.
Autor shook his head. “As I said, Your Majesty, he’s tried and failed. The slightest attempt to fight the Story and restore Fakir’s lost memories results in serious injury. If he does this again, he does it under the threat of death from the Story. He isn’t a coward,” he added immediately, “but his death would be pointless. He would never be able to compose as much music as would be needed before he would be killed.”
The king passed a hand over his eyes. “Then there truly isn’t any hope,” he said.
“The only other hope is Fakir himself,” Charon spoke up. “The hope that he will remember his true self on his own.”
“And is there any chance of this?” the queen asked.
The burden grew heavier in Charon’s eyes as he spoke. “Very little, I’m afraid,” he said.
The mood over the rest of the dinner was somber and grave. Hearing the state of Mytho’s kingdom and combining that with their own side of the story left the visitors both frantic and at a loss. Something needed to be done immediately, yet that was impossible. There was nothing that could be done while they were at a standstill.
“Mytho,” Charon said to the prince as they stood after the meal, “what happened when you talked to Fakir and showed him that tapestry?”
He was stunned to receive a blank stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charon,” Mytho said. “I never did get the chance to talk to him before we were presented. And then you know he excused himself so abruptly from dinner.”
But even as he spoke, it did not sound right to him. His eyes widened as he stared into the distance.
“What is it I’m forgetting?” he whispered as if no one else was there. “I’m forgetting something, but I can’t remember what.”
And Charon’s heart sank. They were all pawns of the Story, currently in a kingdom that had once only existed in a story. It was possible that only made it more dangerous for them, especially since Fakir’s Story had concluded the Story begun by Drosselmeyer that had created this kingdom in the first place.
What were they going to do?
****
Far away from all of them, writhing in pain in a bed of hay, Fakir was digging his fingers into his scalp. He clenched his teeth, his eyes wide as the anguish raked through his soul.
He had been both in physical and mental torment for hours, ever since he had fled the tapestry in the hall. He was struggling to remember what simply would not come. The Story was punishing him for doing so. The fight had calmed down during the presentation and the feast, but his own emotional distress had left him uncomfortable and uneasy and had caused him to make his hasty departure from the banquet room. Now the Story was torturing him again.
“There will be no more of this doubting yourself,” the voice told him. “All of reality has been altered by that sorcerer boy. He has made the Prince forget the truth and planted that false tapestry. He has done all of this, with the encouragement of the girl and the man. They all deserve your hatred.”
“No,” Fakir rasped. “No. . . .”
“Do you deny me?” the voice snarled.
For a moment, fire burned in Fakir’s eyes. “Yes,” he snarled. “Yes, I deny you. I can’t trust you. I haven’t trusted them either, but maybe they . . . maybe they have been telling the truth.”
“Just because of one tapestry?” said the voice.
“No,” Fakir retorted. “Because of all the evidence stacking in their favor. The evidence I’ve been denying because of my cowardice. I haven’t wanted to let go of Lohengrin or the security of being him. I haven’t wanted to accept that I might be someone else, someone whom I don’t remember at all. But it’s time that changed.”
A translucent double of himself with an aura of green materialized in front of him. “Then it’s finally come to this,” it sneered in the same, hated voice that he had been hearing. In his hands he held a sword that resembled a writing quill.
Fakir stared. He did not understand why, but the sight of the sword and the being sent an unshakable fear into his heart. Before he had the chance to even ask what was going on, the blade slashed in his direction.
Instantly he brought up his own sword, meeting the enemy weapon head-on.
“I’ll fight you,” he vowed. “And when I win, you’ll be through.”
“You’ll be through whether you win or not,” his doppelganger sneered. “For even if you decide to become Fakir, you have no memories of that time of your life. And unless you retrieve them tonight, you will die and everyone will forget you ever existed-before they and this kingdom are destroyed too.” The creature leaned in with a treacherous glint. “And the only person who can give your memories back to you will die the moment he tries.”
Fakir clenched his teeth. “Then you admit I’m Fakir too,” he said as he strained against the blade.
“I admit nothing!” said the doppelganger. “I’m only telling you what will happen if you decide to become him.”
Fakir forced him back and got to his feet. “I won’t accept such a miserable fate!” he said. “I will learn who I am and live my life!”
The spectre gave him an eerie grin. “Far be it from me to hold you back,” it said. “I wish you good fortune in your last hours.” And with a cold-hearted laugh it vanished. Fakir was left gripping his sword, staring at the spot where the wretch had been.
“Fakir!”
Slowly he turned, hearing the now-familiar voice. The red-haired girl was running up to the stable doors, worry in her blue eyes. But when she saw him standing, appearing alright, she relaxed.
“Oh thank goodness, you’re okay,” she said.
Fakir regarded her in confusion. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “But I know you like the stable back home, so I thought I’d try.”
Fakir blinked in surprise. A slow smile stole across his features. “I see,” he said.
Surprised by his reaction, she advanced further into the stable. “Fakir? Are you really okay?” She studied him in the dim lantern light, but the shadows that danced across his face only made it all the more difficult to tell what he was thinking.
“I . . .”
Without warning the sword slipped from Fakir’s grasp. He sank to one knee, clutching at his heart.
Ahiru cried out in horror. “Fakir, what’s wrong?!” she wailed, running to his side.
He looked up at her, gritting his teeth in pain. “It looks like that demon was right,” he choked out. “If I don’t regain my memories tonight, I’m dead.”