Think Back on Yesterday, 6/?
Title: Think Back on Yesterday, chapter six
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,663
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor
Supporting Characters: Charon, Uzura
Summary: Autor's attempt to help Fakir has surprising and frightening results.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/6/
Will be posted to paranormal25 when complete.
Chapter Six
Both Charon and Fakir lay awake in their respective bunks for some time, unable to sleep. The events of the past hours were swirling around them, keeping their minds active for different reasons.
Charon was still unable to fully come to terms with the fact that Fakir no longer knew him or anyone else. He had hoped that he would be able to steel himself against the pain, but so far he had not succeeded. It was difficult to imagine it ever hurting any less. Even before he had taken Fakir in to raise as his son, he had been a close friend of the family. He had known Fakir ever since he had been born. And now all of Fakir’s short life was a complete blank to him. There was no way of knowing if he would ever regain those memories, especially if something supernatural was involved.
But how could they go on like this indefinitely? Eventually Fakir would likely do something that would bring everything to a head. And if he put himself in terrible danger, would they be able to save him from following Lohengrin’s fate?
Would he follow that fate? While in Drosselmeyer’s Story, Fakir had not been able to succeed as a knight because the role of the knight was not supposed to triumph. But they were no longer in Drosselmeyer’s Story. Or were they? Fakir’s Story was an extension of Drosselmeyer’s, wasn’t it? And Fakir was being manipulated by it. What did that mean for them? What did it mean for the future in general?
Charon rolled over, his thoughts fitful. It would be a miracle if he ever went to sleep.
Fakir was shaken by the vision he had experienced of his death. Now he recalled that day quite well-the battle he and the Prince had known for so long would come. He had promised to protect the Prince. Instead he had let himself be gruesomely killed by the Raven without even landing one strike. His deathcry was ringing in his ears.
I let him down, he thought in despair. If I hadn’t been torn in two, he wouldn’t have had to shatter his heart to seal the Raven away. Now, if the Raven is gone, I haven’t been revived to aid the Prince in that battle. What could my purpose be?
Maybe he was here to find his look-alike. But the boy would not be missing if it were not for him and his enemies. And what would happen to him after he accomplished the task of locating the hapless hostage? Would he die again? Would he be able to serve the Prince once more as his Knight, as he had thought and hoped? Or would he wander like the ghost knight, not knowing whom to protect?
When Charon at last submitted to slumber, Fakir still remained aware. He was on the top bunk, his hands behind his head as he gazed at the darkened ceiling.
Charon had told him it would be best for him to use some of the clothes they had brought. “Fakir would not mind,” had been his quiet, almost sad-sounding words. Fakir had still not known what to think; after all, the clothes certainly were not his style. But he had conceded the point. He was currently wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
For some reason, he could not get that red-haired girl’s stricken blue eyes out of his mind. She had been so upset in the lounge when they had discussed her missing friend’s Story-Spinning abilities. And then that boy had gone after her, leaving that cryptic “If you only knew” comment when Fakir had queried about the reason for her distress.
Obviously she had been very close to the missing boy, the one who had been mistaken for him. And he stiffened. Of course it would only make it more difficult, having someone else around who looked exactly like him yet was not him. That was probably part of the reason for her departure. Fakir scowled in the darkness. He really had been thick-headed at the table. No wonder her bespectacled friend had seemed somewhat brusque.
He brought his left hand out, carefully tracing the wretched mark left by the Raven’s claws. The proof of the fatal attack had been left on his body in the form of some sort of scar or birthmark. He had wanted to deny it, to insist that such a horrifying fate had not befallen him. But the memory had come. And then when he had been readying himself for bed he had seen the treacherous mark.
What would the Prince think of him returning after all this time? Did the Prince feel that he had been abandoned? Would his Knight be able to make up for his absence?
And what about the abducted boy? Would he be found alive? It would depend on who had taken him. The chances were, if he was alive, he was already being tortured. Fakir had not wanted to worry the others by telling them that, but he supposed he would need to prepare them for what they might find.
A sharp pain drove into his heart and he sat up straight with a gasp, clutching his chest as his hand shook. Something flashed before his eyes-an image or a vision that, though brief, seared into his mind. He-or was it the other boy?-was holding the red-haired girl in his arms, talking with the near-sighted boy in what looked to be the grounds of an old estate.
“I just want the power to protect people,” he said.
And from far-off, a voice came to him, desperate, urgent.
“Remember, Fakir! You have to, for your own sake as well as for the people who love you.”
He gasped, trembling, as the image and the voice were suddenly gone and he was left to himself once more in the quiet room.
“What,” he whispered, “what was that?! What’s going on?”
What felt like an otherworldly hand brushed his mind. Another voice, his own but darker and cruel, whispered in his ear.
“You don’t need to worry about any of that. These foolish visions are nothing to you, Lohengrin the Swan Knight.”
He stiffened, his blood running chill at the icy inflections in the other voice. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why do you mock my voice? Tell me!”
A quiet chuckle. “I was lost and forgotten, but I will never allow that to happen again. I will be remembered. And you will continue your mission.”
Again came the stabbing pain, but now it was more pronounced and more final. Fakir let out a weak gasp as he sank backwards into the mattress and out of consciousness.
****
In spite of herself, Ahiru was awake long before Uzura. With a sigh she threw back the comforter and crept out of bed, shuffling into her slippers. From past experiences with insomnia, she knew she would not be sleeping anymore. It was morning anyway, she noted as she glanced out the window, but it still felt far too early to rise. Her entire body was aching.
I wonder how everyone else slept, she thought to herself, walking quietly to the door and cracking it open to peer into the hall. Are Fakir and Autor still asleep?
She leaped a mile as part of her question was answered. Fakir was standing in the corridor, looking awkward and uncomfortable as he gazed in the direction of her door. As they fully realized they had locked eyes, Fakir burned red and looked away.
“My apologies,” he said. “Did I disturb you?”
“Oh . . . no!” Ahiru exclaimed. She stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought maybe I’d take a walk or something.” She looked at Fakir in concern. “Is there something wrong?”
She expected him to deny it, but instead he continued to look hesitant. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something strange happened to me last night. It involved you in some way, and apparently that boy Fakir, so I wondered . . . I thought perhaps I needed to make you aware of it.”
Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. “What do you mean?!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her thought on how wrong it felt to hear Fakir speaking so formally. Autor had a semi-formal manner of speech, but around Ahiru and Fakir he had largely lowered his guard. With Fakir, it felt like now he was holding her at arm’s length, not wanting to get too close. It tore at her heart.
Fakir winced and then scowled as she all but yelped. Ahiru clamped her mouth shut. He might not tell her anything if she made him annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
Fakir sighed loudly and looked away. After a moment, he turned back. “I saw a strange vision,” he said. “Fakir was standing on the grounds of an abandoned estate, holding you in his arms. He was speaking to that other boy, the one with the eyeglasses, telling him that he wanted power to protect people.”
Ahiru froze, staring in disbelief. “Really?!” she gasped. “You saw that?!” Her mind raced. What could it mean? Was it a memory? She did not remember it having happened, but if Fakir had been holding her, maybe she had been hurt. Could it have been after he had rescued her from Drosselmeyer’s realm and she had collapsed?
“Do you know what it means?” Fakir looked at her, tense and urgent. And as he searched her eyes with his own, her shoulders slumped in despondency.
Fakir did not have the tiniest inclination to think that the one in the vision had been him. He was convinced that it had been his “look-alike”, the one they were trying to rescue.
“I . . . I’m not sure,” Ahiru said, mumbling again. And it was certainly true. Why had Fakir even seen such a thing? Nothing they had been trying to do had restored any memories at all. But just like that, in the middle of the night, something had come to him? Why?
She straightened up. This was something she needed to talk about with Autor. Would he be awake yet? She glanced to his door. Of course, everything was completely quiet, but that did not mean he was not awake. Still, she did not want to disturb him. If she could just stay patient long enough, maybe she could talk with him after breakfast.
Fakir shook his head. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just don’t understand why I would have a vision of him.”
Because he’s you! Ahiru screamed in agony without speaking. She clenched her fists, willing herself not to say it. But she could not stop herself from helplessly whispering, “Fakir. . . .”
For a moment his hard eyes softened. “I’ll hold true to my vow,” he said. “I’ll bring your friend back.” And he walked past, heading out of the sleeping car.
Ahiru could only stare after him in building sorrow and anguish. “As long as you don’t know who you are, you can’t,” she said, so quiet that even she barely heard.
****
Autor did not appear for breakfast. The group had previously agreed to meet in the dining car, so his absence was particularly disconcerting. It was not like him to either sleep in or to forget. Ahiru frowned, both impatient and nervous as she nibbled at her pancakes.
“It’s good to know how reliable he is,” Fakir growled.
“Something must’ve come up,” Ahiru said, though for the life of her she could not imagine what. Where was Autor when they needed him?! She had been waiting half the morning to talk to him and it looked like she still would not get her chance.
“Are you going to go talk to him, Ahiru zura?” Uzura asked, blinking in innocence.
Ahiru started and looked to her. “Yeah,” she said. “I want to know why he isn’t here.”
Charon sighed tiredly. “Maybe he had trouble sleeping too,” he said. His own eyes were bloodshot from lack of rest. He had woke up sometime in the night to find Fakir asleep and had not returned to slumber himself since.
“Maybe,” Ahiru said noncommittally, “but you know how Autor is. He wouldn’t let that stop him.” And he was not likely to let anything else stop him, either, which only increased her confusion all the more. Was something wrong?
She frowned. What would be wrong? Autor had seemed fine last night. Surely that would not be it. But he had better have a good explanation when she found him, she thought to herself.
****
She went back to the sleeping car as soon as she finished her meal. “Autor?” she called at his door, knocking softly at first in case he was asleep. But her agitation quickly got the best of her and she pounded harder. “Autor, are you there?! Why didn’t you come out when we were going to meet?!”
For a moment there was silence. Then a weak voice rasped, “Please . . . don’t do that.”
Ahiru stiffened, ceasing her banging on the door and instead pressing herself against it. “Autor?!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong?” She could hear him moving slowly across the floor. When he reached the door and started to unlock it, she stepped back. But when the door opened and she caught a glimpse of him, she cried out in alarm.
Autor was sick; that much was obvious. His skin was pasty white. His hair and clothes were an unkempt mess. And through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes looked glazed and streaked with red. Ahiru stared, her previous frustration vanishing.
“What happened?!” she cried. “Tell me, Autor. Please!”
Autor stepped aside, allowing her to come in before shutting and locking the door. Then he sank onto the edge of his bed, running a hand into his hair.
“Tell me something first,” he said. “How is Fakir today?”
Ahiru blinked in confusion. “Um, he’s pretty much the same, I guess,” she said. “But something weird happened! He had a vision last night where he saw he was holding me and talking to you.” She looked down. “He just won’t even think it’s really him.”
She could feel Autor’s intent gaze on her as she spoke. “Really?” he gasped. “He actually remembered something?”
She nodded. “Yeah. At least, it sounded like it. But I didn’t even know what to tell him when we’re not supposed to say that he’s Fakir.” She looked blankly at the floor.
“Incredible,” Autor breathed. “I didn’t think he would really . . .”
Ahiru’s head jerked up. “Wait a minute!” she said in realization. “Autor, what did you do?! Did you try bringing Fakir’s memories back?!”
“I tried,” Autor confessed, “but I was stopped by a translucent image of Fakir, not unlike what he saw in his dream before any of this happened.” He pushed up his glasses. “I thought that my attempt had been altogether aborted.”
Only now did Ahiru see the music on the nightstand. She walked over, staring at the two finished measures. “That’s how far you got?” she said.
Autor nodded. “I was stopped on the third measure.”
“And you got sick like this?!” Ahiru stared at him, feeling the tears prick her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do it?!”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case I failed,” Autor said. “And I didn’t want you to worry about me as well as . . .”
“Well, I am worried!” Ahiru interrupted. “Autor, you look terrible! Tell me honestly, have you slept at all?!”
“Slightly,” Autor said. “For the most part I’ve spent the night ill. But it’s been worth it. Fakir remembered something! And his doppelganger, or his Story, or whatever it is, hasn’t been able to withhold it from him.” He looked up at her, his eyes alight with a new determination. “I have to try again. Don’t you see, Ahiru, the more he remembers, the better chance we’ll have of being able to convince him he’s Fakir. He might finally start to realize on his own.”
Ahiru stared at him, her bottom lip quivering. “But . . . at what cost?” she said finally. “If you got like this just from composing that much, what will happen to you if you . . .” She trailed off, a sob choking free.
“I want Fakir to be saved,” she said, “but I don’t want to lose you, either. Autor . . .”
She sobbed again. Was this the only choice? Did it have to be one friend or the other? Why couldn’t they all come through this and be happy again? Why were they being tormented like this?
“Ahiru.” Autor pushed himself off the bed, still shaking. The room spun as he stood, but he forced the vertigo back.
“I’ll never forget what I saw in Drosselmeyer’s world, when I witnessed you and Fakir and the others mourning over my death. I won’t let that happen again. I swear to you that I won’t.”
Ahiru shuddered, slowly turning to face him. He was completely serious; the pain he had felt from that time was reflected in his eyes.
“I won’t die, Ahiru. I will compose my work for Fakir and restore his memories, even if only one at a time. You will talk to him and try to explain them to him. And together, somehow, we’ll bring him back.”
Ahiru swallowed hard. She wanted to ask how, how could they possibly, when Fakir would not even see the obvious truth right in front of him. She wanted to ask how long it would take and how Autor could be certain he could actually keep his promise to her. She wanted to beg him not to put himself in harm’s way anymore.
And yet, she could not deny the small seed of hope that he had planted. She could not deny that part of her wanted to try this. It was the only thing so far that had given a portion of Fakir’s true self back to him, albeit he did not yet realize it.
And so instead, she only nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Just as long as you really don’t die.”
“I gave my word,” Autor said.
“I know, but . . .” Ahiru’s voice quavered again as she spoke. “There’s some things you really can’t make promises about.”
****
It was late that night when Autor again returned to the lounge. After spending the remainder of the day resting, he felt well enough to attempt his composition again. He sank down at the bench, brushing the stray strands of hair away as they slipped over his glasses.
He had no idea exactly what memories would be restored to Fakir if this worked a second time. He had been surprised when Ahiru had told him what Fakir had gained the previous night. It seemed like such a random event to be the first returned memory.
But on the other hand, he mused as he looked over the two established measures, maybe it was not so random after all. Fakir’s declaration of wanting the power to protect people had certainly always been a driving force for him. Recollecting when he had stated that was perhaps a logical starting point for him.
And what had Autor wanted the power for? He frowned as he cautiously pressed a key, seeking the chord he had decided on last night before Fakir’s Story had interrupted him. There was no stabbing pain yet. His fingers found the other notes that comprised the chord without being stopped.
He had always longed to do something valuable that would make a positive difference, but had it been more for the people or more for himself? He had yearned so strongly for recognition and power, to have an existence that would long be remembered.
Fakir was always more noble than me, he thought to himself. Even at his worst, all he wanted deep down was to protect his loved ones.
But what am I doing now?
His hands were vaguely shaking as he came to the end of the measure. Was it from fear of the illness starting or was it from the illness itself? At this point he was not sure.
I won’t get any widescale recognition for this, he knew. I only want to save someone important to both Ahiru and me. Have I changed?
I don’t know. Even during the final battle against Drosselmeyer’s Story, I let go of my dreams of recognition and focused on what was truly important. Though it took seeing the town full of crows for me to realize what was really at stake.
As he began the next measure, the perspiration began to form and trickle down his face and neck. He breathed heavily, staring at the keys as his vision split in two.
Two measures will probably always be my limit, he determined. Or can I push myself a little bit farther this time?
He closed his eyes as he played the notes, hoping to stave off the double vision. For a short while it seemed to be working. He opened his eyes with caution to see while he wrote down the next part of the composition.
An invisible hand took hold of his throat, right away squeezing unbearably. Autor gasped, the quill falling from his hand to clatter on the keys. He reached up with both hands, desperate to pry the unseen force back.
“I thought I told you not to interfere. It looks like you don’t scare easily.”
He stiffened at the sound of the cruel voice from the previous night. Fakir’s Story, he thought in his mind. He could not speak. His vision swam out of focus as his oxygen continued to be choked off. He would fall unconscious within a matter of seconds. Would the Story let go then? Or would it keep pressing until either Autor’s neck snapped or he perished from the lack of air?
“Autor!”
Ahiru?! He could not turn around to see her, but he could hear her running into the room, panic-stricken.
“Autor, what’s wrong?! Is it happening again?!”
As she drew closer, Autor’s frantic clawing on seemingly nothing became apparent. Her eyes widened in sheer horror. “Let him go!” she cried. “He’s going to choke to death!”
“Consider this your second and final warning,” Fakir’s Story hissed. “You are becoming far too troublesome. If you do this again, you will lose your life. I swear it on Fakir’s miserable existence.”
Ahiru gasped. “Who are you?!” she demanded.
There was no reply. Instead, the pressure on Autor’s throat was abruptly released. Autor gasped and sputtered, the air rushing into his lungs with such force that he doubled over in a coughing fit.
“Autor! Autor!” Ahiru dropped onto the bench next to him, horrified. “Are you okay?! Say something, Autor! Please!” She reached over, laying a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up weakly, his glasses sliding down his nose. A shaky smile played on his lips. “I managed four measures,” he said. “That’s twice what I accomplished last night.”
Ahiru’s eyes filled with tears. “Autor, did you hear what that creepy voice said?!” she said. “You can’t do this again. We’ll save Fakir some other way. Please, promise me you won’t do this again!”
Autor looked at her as he pushed up his glasses. “I already said I wouldn’t die,” he rasped. “No matter what I do, that still stands.”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t do this! Something was choking you, Autor! I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And you sure couldn’t.” By now she was verging on hysteria. “I’m tired of being helpless. I can’t stand it anymore! I just can’t!”
Autor gazed at her, his heart going out to the innocent duck-turned-girl who had seen so much and who was still seeing so much. How could he really cause her more pain? What if he really could not stop himself from being killed another time?
“Alright,” he said at last, feeling awkward as he rested a hand on her quaking shoulder. “I won’t do it again. Not unless extenuating circumstances make it necessary.”
She looked up at him, her expression agonized. It was the best answer she was going to get from him. And she was going to have to be satisfied with it, even though she was not satisfied at all.
“You’ve already opened the door, Autor,” she said pleadingly. “Maybe we can work with what you’ve done for now and then Mytho can help us too. You don’t have to risk yourself anymore.”
Finally Autor nodded. “We don’t know what memories Fakir has been given now, if any,” he said. “We should find out.”
Ahiru nodded too. But for a moment she continued to sit where she was, too emotionally drained to make herself get up.
Autor sat with her, not speaking. There were no words left to say, or perhaps, none that needed to be said.
****
Fakir was lying awake, as he had the previous night, when it happened again. At the stabbing pain in his heart he shot upright, clapping a hand over his chest.
“What?” he whispered. “What now?”
The vision that opened to him took place in some sort of underground chamber, lit by light from the claw-like formation in the center of a lake. He was struggling onto the bank, badly wounded, while a blank Prince Siegfried stared through him.
“Prince,” Fakir whispered in horror as he watched. “What happened to you?”
A girl in a raven tutu stood observing, expressing shock at the dark-haired boy in the vision.
“My body is still in one piece,” he said with a triumphant smirk.
Fakir stared. Who was this person? Was it Fakir? Was it he himself, Lohengrin? But . . . he did not remember this as ever having happened. The Prince had never been like this. It looked more like a scene after he had lost his heart. Yet why would there be a concern that Fakir, the boy now missing, could have ended up with his body mutilated? It had to be a coincidence, but . . .
The dark-haired swordsman raised his weapon, much to the raven girl’s shock.
“Mytho, forgive me.”
The blade was brought down on the Prince’s sword, snapping it in half. The two pieces flew into the air as white birds, vanishing from sight. And the boy’s strength was spent. He fell backwards, even as a girl in white on the opposite bank stared in horror.
“Princess Tutu . . . you must see to Mytho’s future.”
He hit the water with a splash of finality. And Tutu cried out in grief.
“Fakir!”
The Fakir who was watching stared. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It is Fakir, not me. Why am I seeing his fate? Why is Princess Tutu’s cry piercing my heart so deeply? I don’t know her.”
The image before him trembled. But instead of the vision fading altogether, it changed. Fakir’s eyes widened in further surprise. Now there was a child quietly sobbing in an upstairs room, while a man-a younger, but clearly recognizable Charon-was helping him get dressed. The birthmark that Fakir knew he himself bore was clearly visible on the child’s body.
“This is just like the mark in the legend that’s been passed down among our people,” Charon said. “It’s a sign that you are the reincarnation of the brave knight who protected the prince.”
The child stopped crying and smiled brightly, comforted. But Fakir fell back in shock and disbelief.
“I have that mark,” he rasped. “But I never met that man before last night.
“Who . . . who am I?!”
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,663
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor
Supporting Characters: Charon, Uzura
Summary: Autor's attempt to help Fakir has surprising and frightening results.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/6/
Will be posted to paranormal25 when complete.
Chapter Six
Both Charon and Fakir lay awake in their respective bunks for some time, unable to sleep. The events of the past hours were swirling around them, keeping their minds active for different reasons.
Charon was still unable to fully come to terms with the fact that Fakir no longer knew him or anyone else. He had hoped that he would be able to steel himself against the pain, but so far he had not succeeded. It was difficult to imagine it ever hurting any less. Even before he had taken Fakir in to raise as his son, he had been a close friend of the family. He had known Fakir ever since he had been born. And now all of Fakir’s short life was a complete blank to him. There was no way of knowing if he would ever regain those memories, especially if something supernatural was involved.
But how could they go on like this indefinitely? Eventually Fakir would likely do something that would bring everything to a head. And if he put himself in terrible danger, would they be able to save him from following Lohengrin’s fate?
Would he follow that fate? While in Drosselmeyer’s Story, Fakir had not been able to succeed as a knight because the role of the knight was not supposed to triumph. But they were no longer in Drosselmeyer’s Story. Or were they? Fakir’s Story was an extension of Drosselmeyer’s, wasn’t it? And Fakir was being manipulated by it. What did that mean for them? What did it mean for the future in general?
Charon rolled over, his thoughts fitful. It would be a miracle if he ever went to sleep.
Fakir was shaken by the vision he had experienced of his death. Now he recalled that day quite well-the battle he and the Prince had known for so long would come. He had promised to protect the Prince. Instead he had let himself be gruesomely killed by the Raven without even landing one strike. His deathcry was ringing in his ears.
I let him down, he thought in despair. If I hadn’t been torn in two, he wouldn’t have had to shatter his heart to seal the Raven away. Now, if the Raven is gone, I haven’t been revived to aid the Prince in that battle. What could my purpose be?
Maybe he was here to find his look-alike. But the boy would not be missing if it were not for him and his enemies. And what would happen to him after he accomplished the task of locating the hapless hostage? Would he die again? Would he be able to serve the Prince once more as his Knight, as he had thought and hoped? Or would he wander like the ghost knight, not knowing whom to protect?
When Charon at last submitted to slumber, Fakir still remained aware. He was on the top bunk, his hands behind his head as he gazed at the darkened ceiling.
Charon had told him it would be best for him to use some of the clothes they had brought. “Fakir would not mind,” had been his quiet, almost sad-sounding words. Fakir had still not known what to think; after all, the clothes certainly were not his style. But he had conceded the point. He was currently wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
For some reason, he could not get that red-haired girl’s stricken blue eyes out of his mind. She had been so upset in the lounge when they had discussed her missing friend’s Story-Spinning abilities. And then that boy had gone after her, leaving that cryptic “If you only knew” comment when Fakir had queried about the reason for her distress.
Obviously she had been very close to the missing boy, the one who had been mistaken for him. And he stiffened. Of course it would only make it more difficult, having someone else around who looked exactly like him yet was not him. That was probably part of the reason for her departure. Fakir scowled in the darkness. He really had been thick-headed at the table. No wonder her bespectacled friend had seemed somewhat brusque.
He brought his left hand out, carefully tracing the wretched mark left by the Raven’s claws. The proof of the fatal attack had been left on his body in the form of some sort of scar or birthmark. He had wanted to deny it, to insist that such a horrifying fate had not befallen him. But the memory had come. And then when he had been readying himself for bed he had seen the treacherous mark.
What would the Prince think of him returning after all this time? Did the Prince feel that he had been abandoned? Would his Knight be able to make up for his absence?
And what about the abducted boy? Would he be found alive? It would depend on who had taken him. The chances were, if he was alive, he was already being tortured. Fakir had not wanted to worry the others by telling them that, but he supposed he would need to prepare them for what they might find.
A sharp pain drove into his heart and he sat up straight with a gasp, clutching his chest as his hand shook. Something flashed before his eyes-an image or a vision that, though brief, seared into his mind. He-or was it the other boy?-was holding the red-haired girl in his arms, talking with the near-sighted boy in what looked to be the grounds of an old estate.
“I just want the power to protect people,” he said.
And from far-off, a voice came to him, desperate, urgent.
“Remember, Fakir! You have to, for your own sake as well as for the people who love you.”
He gasped, trembling, as the image and the voice were suddenly gone and he was left to himself once more in the quiet room.
“What,” he whispered, “what was that?! What’s going on?”
What felt like an otherworldly hand brushed his mind. Another voice, his own but darker and cruel, whispered in his ear.
“You don’t need to worry about any of that. These foolish visions are nothing to you, Lohengrin the Swan Knight.”
He stiffened, his blood running chill at the icy inflections in the other voice. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why do you mock my voice? Tell me!”
A quiet chuckle. “I was lost and forgotten, but I will never allow that to happen again. I will be remembered. And you will continue your mission.”
Again came the stabbing pain, but now it was more pronounced and more final. Fakir let out a weak gasp as he sank backwards into the mattress and out of consciousness.
****
In spite of herself, Ahiru was awake long before Uzura. With a sigh she threw back the comforter and crept out of bed, shuffling into her slippers. From past experiences with insomnia, she knew she would not be sleeping anymore. It was morning anyway, she noted as she glanced out the window, but it still felt far too early to rise. Her entire body was aching.
I wonder how everyone else slept, she thought to herself, walking quietly to the door and cracking it open to peer into the hall. Are Fakir and Autor still asleep?
She leaped a mile as part of her question was answered. Fakir was standing in the corridor, looking awkward and uncomfortable as he gazed in the direction of her door. As they fully realized they had locked eyes, Fakir burned red and looked away.
“My apologies,” he said. “Did I disturb you?”
“Oh . . . no!” Ahiru exclaimed. She stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought maybe I’d take a walk or something.” She looked at Fakir in concern. “Is there something wrong?”
She expected him to deny it, but instead he continued to look hesitant. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something strange happened to me last night. It involved you in some way, and apparently that boy Fakir, so I wondered . . . I thought perhaps I needed to make you aware of it.”
Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. “What do you mean?!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her thought on how wrong it felt to hear Fakir speaking so formally. Autor had a semi-formal manner of speech, but around Ahiru and Fakir he had largely lowered his guard. With Fakir, it felt like now he was holding her at arm’s length, not wanting to get too close. It tore at her heart.
Fakir winced and then scowled as she all but yelped. Ahiru clamped her mouth shut. He might not tell her anything if she made him annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
Fakir sighed loudly and looked away. After a moment, he turned back. “I saw a strange vision,” he said. “Fakir was standing on the grounds of an abandoned estate, holding you in his arms. He was speaking to that other boy, the one with the eyeglasses, telling him that he wanted power to protect people.”
Ahiru froze, staring in disbelief. “Really?!” she gasped. “You saw that?!” Her mind raced. What could it mean? Was it a memory? She did not remember it having happened, but if Fakir had been holding her, maybe she had been hurt. Could it have been after he had rescued her from Drosselmeyer’s realm and she had collapsed?
“Do you know what it means?” Fakir looked at her, tense and urgent. And as he searched her eyes with his own, her shoulders slumped in despondency.
Fakir did not have the tiniest inclination to think that the one in the vision had been him. He was convinced that it had been his “look-alike”, the one they were trying to rescue.
“I . . . I’m not sure,” Ahiru said, mumbling again. And it was certainly true. Why had Fakir even seen such a thing? Nothing they had been trying to do had restored any memories at all. But just like that, in the middle of the night, something had come to him? Why?
She straightened up. This was something she needed to talk about with Autor. Would he be awake yet? She glanced to his door. Of course, everything was completely quiet, but that did not mean he was not awake. Still, she did not want to disturb him. If she could just stay patient long enough, maybe she could talk with him after breakfast.
Fakir shook his head. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just don’t understand why I would have a vision of him.”
Because he’s you! Ahiru screamed in agony without speaking. She clenched her fists, willing herself not to say it. But she could not stop herself from helplessly whispering, “Fakir. . . .”
For a moment his hard eyes softened. “I’ll hold true to my vow,” he said. “I’ll bring your friend back.” And he walked past, heading out of the sleeping car.
Ahiru could only stare after him in building sorrow and anguish. “As long as you don’t know who you are, you can’t,” she said, so quiet that even she barely heard.
****
Autor did not appear for breakfast. The group had previously agreed to meet in the dining car, so his absence was particularly disconcerting. It was not like him to either sleep in or to forget. Ahiru frowned, both impatient and nervous as she nibbled at her pancakes.
“It’s good to know how reliable he is,” Fakir growled.
“Something must’ve come up,” Ahiru said, though for the life of her she could not imagine what. Where was Autor when they needed him?! She had been waiting half the morning to talk to him and it looked like she still would not get her chance.
“Are you going to go talk to him, Ahiru zura?” Uzura asked, blinking in innocence.
Ahiru started and looked to her. “Yeah,” she said. “I want to know why he isn’t here.”
Charon sighed tiredly. “Maybe he had trouble sleeping too,” he said. His own eyes were bloodshot from lack of rest. He had woke up sometime in the night to find Fakir asleep and had not returned to slumber himself since.
“Maybe,” Ahiru said noncommittally, “but you know how Autor is. He wouldn’t let that stop him.” And he was not likely to let anything else stop him, either, which only increased her confusion all the more. Was something wrong?
She frowned. What would be wrong? Autor had seemed fine last night. Surely that would not be it. But he had better have a good explanation when she found him, she thought to herself.
****
She went back to the sleeping car as soon as she finished her meal. “Autor?” she called at his door, knocking softly at first in case he was asleep. But her agitation quickly got the best of her and she pounded harder. “Autor, are you there?! Why didn’t you come out when we were going to meet?!”
For a moment there was silence. Then a weak voice rasped, “Please . . . don’t do that.”
Ahiru stiffened, ceasing her banging on the door and instead pressing herself against it. “Autor?!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong?” She could hear him moving slowly across the floor. When he reached the door and started to unlock it, she stepped back. But when the door opened and she caught a glimpse of him, she cried out in alarm.
Autor was sick; that much was obvious. His skin was pasty white. His hair and clothes were an unkempt mess. And through the lenses of his glasses, his eyes looked glazed and streaked with red. Ahiru stared, her previous frustration vanishing.
“What happened?!” she cried. “Tell me, Autor. Please!”
Autor stepped aside, allowing her to come in before shutting and locking the door. Then he sank onto the edge of his bed, running a hand into his hair.
“Tell me something first,” he said. “How is Fakir today?”
Ahiru blinked in confusion. “Um, he’s pretty much the same, I guess,” she said. “But something weird happened! He had a vision last night where he saw he was holding me and talking to you.” She looked down. “He just won’t even think it’s really him.”
She could feel Autor’s intent gaze on her as she spoke. “Really?” he gasped. “He actually remembered something?”
She nodded. “Yeah. At least, it sounded like it. But I didn’t even know what to tell him when we’re not supposed to say that he’s Fakir.” She looked blankly at the floor.
“Incredible,” Autor breathed. “I didn’t think he would really . . .”
Ahiru’s head jerked up. “Wait a minute!” she said in realization. “Autor, what did you do?! Did you try bringing Fakir’s memories back?!”
“I tried,” Autor confessed, “but I was stopped by a translucent image of Fakir, not unlike what he saw in his dream before any of this happened.” He pushed up his glasses. “I thought that my attempt had been altogether aborted.”
Only now did Ahiru see the music on the nightstand. She walked over, staring at the two finished measures. “That’s how far you got?” she said.
Autor nodded. “I was stopped on the third measure.”
“And you got sick like this?!” Ahiru stared at him, feeling the tears prick her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do it?!”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case I failed,” Autor said. “And I didn’t want you to worry about me as well as . . .”
“Well, I am worried!” Ahiru interrupted. “Autor, you look terrible! Tell me honestly, have you slept at all?!”
“Slightly,” Autor said. “For the most part I’ve spent the night ill. But it’s been worth it. Fakir remembered something! And his doppelganger, or his Story, or whatever it is, hasn’t been able to withhold it from him.” He looked up at her, his eyes alight with a new determination. “I have to try again. Don’t you see, Ahiru, the more he remembers, the better chance we’ll have of being able to convince him he’s Fakir. He might finally start to realize on his own.”
Ahiru stared at him, her bottom lip quivering. “But . . . at what cost?” she said finally. “If you got like this just from composing that much, what will happen to you if you . . .” She trailed off, a sob choking free.
“I want Fakir to be saved,” she said, “but I don’t want to lose you, either. Autor . . .”
She sobbed again. Was this the only choice? Did it have to be one friend or the other? Why couldn’t they all come through this and be happy again? Why were they being tormented like this?
“Ahiru.” Autor pushed himself off the bed, still shaking. The room spun as he stood, but he forced the vertigo back.
“I’ll never forget what I saw in Drosselmeyer’s world, when I witnessed you and Fakir and the others mourning over my death. I won’t let that happen again. I swear to you that I won’t.”
Ahiru shuddered, slowly turning to face him. He was completely serious; the pain he had felt from that time was reflected in his eyes.
“I won’t die, Ahiru. I will compose my work for Fakir and restore his memories, even if only one at a time. You will talk to him and try to explain them to him. And together, somehow, we’ll bring him back.”
Ahiru swallowed hard. She wanted to ask how, how could they possibly, when Fakir would not even see the obvious truth right in front of him. She wanted to ask how long it would take and how Autor could be certain he could actually keep his promise to her. She wanted to beg him not to put himself in harm’s way anymore.
And yet, she could not deny the small seed of hope that he had planted. She could not deny that part of her wanted to try this. It was the only thing so far that had given a portion of Fakir’s true self back to him, albeit he did not yet realize it.
And so instead, she only nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Just as long as you really don’t die.”
“I gave my word,” Autor said.
“I know, but . . .” Ahiru’s voice quavered again as she spoke. “There’s some things you really can’t make promises about.”
****
It was late that night when Autor again returned to the lounge. After spending the remainder of the day resting, he felt well enough to attempt his composition again. He sank down at the bench, brushing the stray strands of hair away as they slipped over his glasses.
He had no idea exactly what memories would be restored to Fakir if this worked a second time. He had been surprised when Ahiru had told him what Fakir had gained the previous night. It seemed like such a random event to be the first returned memory.
But on the other hand, he mused as he looked over the two established measures, maybe it was not so random after all. Fakir’s declaration of wanting the power to protect people had certainly always been a driving force for him. Recollecting when he had stated that was perhaps a logical starting point for him.
And what had Autor wanted the power for? He frowned as he cautiously pressed a key, seeking the chord he had decided on last night before Fakir’s Story had interrupted him. There was no stabbing pain yet. His fingers found the other notes that comprised the chord without being stopped.
He had always longed to do something valuable that would make a positive difference, but had it been more for the people or more for himself? He had yearned so strongly for recognition and power, to have an existence that would long be remembered.
Fakir was always more noble than me, he thought to himself. Even at his worst, all he wanted deep down was to protect his loved ones.
But what am I doing now?
His hands were vaguely shaking as he came to the end of the measure. Was it from fear of the illness starting or was it from the illness itself? At this point he was not sure.
I won’t get any widescale recognition for this, he knew. I only want to save someone important to both Ahiru and me. Have I changed?
I don’t know. Even during the final battle against Drosselmeyer’s Story, I let go of my dreams of recognition and focused on what was truly important. Though it took seeing the town full of crows for me to realize what was really at stake.
As he began the next measure, the perspiration began to form and trickle down his face and neck. He breathed heavily, staring at the keys as his vision split in two.
Two measures will probably always be my limit, he determined. Or can I push myself a little bit farther this time?
He closed his eyes as he played the notes, hoping to stave off the double vision. For a short while it seemed to be working. He opened his eyes with caution to see while he wrote down the next part of the composition.
An invisible hand took hold of his throat, right away squeezing unbearably. Autor gasped, the quill falling from his hand to clatter on the keys. He reached up with both hands, desperate to pry the unseen force back.
“I thought I told you not to interfere. It looks like you don’t scare easily.”
He stiffened at the sound of the cruel voice from the previous night. Fakir’s Story, he thought in his mind. He could not speak. His vision swam out of focus as his oxygen continued to be choked off. He would fall unconscious within a matter of seconds. Would the Story let go then? Or would it keep pressing until either Autor’s neck snapped or he perished from the lack of air?
“Autor!”
Ahiru?! He could not turn around to see her, but he could hear her running into the room, panic-stricken.
“Autor, what’s wrong?! Is it happening again?!”
As she drew closer, Autor’s frantic clawing on seemingly nothing became apparent. Her eyes widened in sheer horror. “Let him go!” she cried. “He’s going to choke to death!”
“Consider this your second and final warning,” Fakir’s Story hissed. “You are becoming far too troublesome. If you do this again, you will lose your life. I swear it on Fakir’s miserable existence.”
Ahiru gasped. “Who are you?!” she demanded.
There was no reply. Instead, the pressure on Autor’s throat was abruptly released. Autor gasped and sputtered, the air rushing into his lungs with such force that he doubled over in a coughing fit.
“Autor! Autor!” Ahiru dropped onto the bench next to him, horrified. “Are you okay?! Say something, Autor! Please!” She reached over, laying a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up weakly, his glasses sliding down his nose. A shaky smile played on his lips. “I managed four measures,” he said. “That’s twice what I accomplished last night.”
Ahiru’s eyes filled with tears. “Autor, did you hear what that creepy voice said?!” she said. “You can’t do this again. We’ll save Fakir some other way. Please, promise me you won’t do this again!”
Autor looked at her as he pushed up his glasses. “I already said I wouldn’t die,” he rasped. “No matter what I do, that still stands.”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t do this! Something was choking you, Autor! I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And you sure couldn’t.” By now she was verging on hysteria. “I’m tired of being helpless. I can’t stand it anymore! I just can’t!”
Autor gazed at her, his heart going out to the innocent duck-turned-girl who had seen so much and who was still seeing so much. How could he really cause her more pain? What if he really could not stop himself from being killed another time?
“Alright,” he said at last, feeling awkward as he rested a hand on her quaking shoulder. “I won’t do it again. Not unless extenuating circumstances make it necessary.”
She looked up at him, her expression agonized. It was the best answer she was going to get from him. And she was going to have to be satisfied with it, even though she was not satisfied at all.
“You’ve already opened the door, Autor,” she said pleadingly. “Maybe we can work with what you’ve done for now and then Mytho can help us too. You don’t have to risk yourself anymore.”
Finally Autor nodded. “We don’t know what memories Fakir has been given now, if any,” he said. “We should find out.”
Ahiru nodded too. But for a moment she continued to sit where she was, too emotionally drained to make herself get up.
Autor sat with her, not speaking. There were no words left to say, or perhaps, none that needed to be said.
****
Fakir was lying awake, as he had the previous night, when it happened again. At the stabbing pain in his heart he shot upright, clapping a hand over his chest.
“What?” he whispered. “What now?”
The vision that opened to him took place in some sort of underground chamber, lit by light from the claw-like formation in the center of a lake. He was struggling onto the bank, badly wounded, while a blank Prince Siegfried stared through him.
“Prince,” Fakir whispered in horror as he watched. “What happened to you?”
A girl in a raven tutu stood observing, expressing shock at the dark-haired boy in the vision.
“My body is still in one piece,” he said with a triumphant smirk.
Fakir stared. Who was this person? Was it Fakir? Was it he himself, Lohengrin? But . . . he did not remember this as ever having happened. The Prince had never been like this. It looked more like a scene after he had lost his heart. Yet why would there be a concern that Fakir, the boy now missing, could have ended up with his body mutilated? It had to be a coincidence, but . . .
The dark-haired swordsman raised his weapon, much to the raven girl’s shock.
“Mytho, forgive me.”
The blade was brought down on the Prince’s sword, snapping it in half. The two pieces flew into the air as white birds, vanishing from sight. And the boy’s strength was spent. He fell backwards, even as a girl in white on the opposite bank stared in horror.
“Princess Tutu . . . you must see to Mytho’s future.”
He hit the water with a splash of finality. And Tutu cried out in grief.
“Fakir!”
The Fakir who was watching stared. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It is Fakir, not me. Why am I seeing his fate? Why is Princess Tutu’s cry piercing my heart so deeply? I don’t know her.”
The image before him trembled. But instead of the vision fading altogether, it changed. Fakir’s eyes widened in further surprise. Now there was a child quietly sobbing in an upstairs room, while a man-a younger, but clearly recognizable Charon-was helping him get dressed. The birthmark that Fakir knew he himself bore was clearly visible on the child’s body.
“This is just like the mark in the legend that’s been passed down among our people,” Charon said. “It’s a sign that you are the reincarnation of the brave knight who protected the prince.”
The child stopped crying and smiled brightly, comforted. But Fakir fell back in shock and disbelief.
“I have that mark,” he rasped. “But I never met that man before last night.
“Who . . . who am I?!”