Think Back on Yesterday, 13/?
Title: Think Back on Yesterday, chapter thirteen
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,242
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor, Rue, Mytho, Charon, Uzura
Summary: One by one, the Story makes good on its cruel threat.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/13/
Will be posted to paranormal25 when complete.
Notes: Thanks to Northeastwind, who inadvertently inspired Rue and Autor’s conversation! Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve done a story this long. It’s fun.
Chapter Thirteen
Fakir coughed behind his free hand, squinting through the thick smoke as his eyes watered. There was no sign of Charon, or his Story, or anyone else. He and Ahiru had been fumbling through this mess for what seemed ages. And the longer they searched, the deeper into the unhealthy clouds they plunged.
“He’s not here!” Ahiru cried in despair at his side. “What are we going to do?! We can’t leave him here!”
“We have to keep looking,” Fakir said.
He was trying not to let his heart ache, to push aside the anguish that had been swiftly filling his soul since realizing Ahiru did not know him, but it was impossible to hide from it altogether. She had fought so hard to save him, to get him to remember her and everyone and everything else, and now she was the one with blank eyes, looking at him as though he were a stranger.
And he remembered. He remembered. She was Ahiru, the annoying girl who had always ended up coming around Mytho, who had tried to restore his heart as Princess Tutu even when Fakir had bitterly opposed her. The brave girl who had never given up, who had finally worked her way into Fakir’s heart and changed him because of her hope and her determination.
The girl he loved.
He glanced down at the satchel she was carrying, barely able to even see its outline. Would it be possible to write them out of this mess? The Story had written them into it. If one of them had a flashlight, maybe he could try writing that it started to rain and the smoke dispersed or something like that.
He frowned. Was it really that simple? His memories were still not complete, but somehow it seemed that Story-Spinning was not just putting on paper what he wanted to say. The trouble he had gone through attempting to write back at the palace testified to that.
“What are we waiting for?!” Ahiru exclaimed. “Let’s go!”
“Wait a minute,” Fakir shot back. He grabbed at the flap of the bag, pulling it up as he reached for the materials inside. “I’m going to try something. Do you have a flashlight?”
She blinked. “Yeah,” she said. “I had to use one to come up. I thought a lantern might be too dangerous with the earthquakes and stuff.” She pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket and clicked it on.
Fakir nodded in approval. “Hold it so it shines on this,” he said, raising and balancing the paper holder in his left arm and dipping the quill in the ink.
“What are you going to do?!” Ahiru said in disbelief.
“Maybe nothing,” Fakir growled. He pressed the pen to the leaf, willing words to come. To his relief and amazement, they did.
It was then that the storm gathering overhead burst free, sending rain upon the mountaintop and dispelling the growing smoke. This would enable the two youths to find their adopted father and search for the treacherous Story that had written them into this predicament.
Yes, that was right, Fakir remembered, even as he looked at the words in surprise. Charon had taken Ahiru in as he had taken Mytho in before that. With Drosselmeyer’s Story ended, Ahiru had needed someone to take legal guardianship of her after becoming a girl again. Charon, knowing the truth about her origins, had been the most logical choice.
Ahiru coughed, squinting at the words on the page. “Is it working?” she asked.
Fakir looked up, studying the scene around them. Overhead the thunder rumbled.
It was only as the rain began to pour down moments later that something else occurred to him. He swore, shoving the papers back into the satchel before they could get wet.
“This had better work,” he said. “Unless there’s a place to go to get out of the rain, I’m not going to be able to write anymore.”
“Well, at least we can breathe now!” Ahiru said. She heaved a sigh of relief as the cleansing water swept over the mountain, washing the smoke into nothingness.
Fakir frowned. “Something doesn’t seem right,” he muttered. “That was too easy.”
Ahiru froze, looking over her shoulder at him. “So we didn’t win?!” she gasped.
“I don’t know,” Fakir said. “Come on, let’s find Charon.” He grabbed her wrist and started off in determination. He had been able to write the part about Charon with ease, so did that mean they would find him?
His stomach knotted. If nothing was going to go as it should, what if they found Charon in a bad state? The Story had threatened that . . .
He did not finish that thought. Instead he broke into a run, pulling Ahiru with him.
“Hey!” she cried, nearly stumbling over a rock. “Don’t go so fast! We might fall down the mountain!”
“You might, but you’re not going to because I won’t let you,” Fakir retorted. “Charon might be hurt.” The longer they ran, the more probable the thought became. Panic rose in his heart as he pressed forward in desperation, calling for the blacksmith.
Ahiru suddenly gave a cry of horror. “Is that blood?!” she burst out, pointing to a downhill trail of diluted crimson mixed with water.
Fakir flinched. He turned, staring at the sight. It was as he feared.
“Charon!” he screamed. He kept hold of Ahiru’s wrist as he ran forward, frantic both to find the man and to not let anything more happen to Ahiru. The girl struggled to keep pace with him; even though she was a fast runner, this was difficult terrain and it was hard to move fast with her wrist being held on to.
But all such thoughts vanished as they found a limp hand lying in the grass. Fakir’s heart dropped as he released Ahiru and fell to his knees. “Charon!” he yelled again. He was trembling in sickened horror and denial.
“Charon!” Ahiru echoed. Tears pricked her eyes. “Charon, wake up!”
The man was sprawled on his back, his face twisted in pain. His other hand was clutching his side as blood slipped through his fingers. At the sound of the teens’ voices he grunted, forcing his eyes open.
“Ahiru?” he rasped. He looked to Fakir. “Who . . . ?”
Fakir’s blood ran cold. “Charon. . . .”
He reached to pry the large hand away from the wound. “You don’t know me at all?” he asked, though he was certain it was in vain.
“No,” Charon frowned, wincing in pain as Fakir forced his hand aside.
Fakir’s gaze traveled over the length of the injury. It had clearly been inflicted by the Story’s sword, but he could not tell how deep it was. He grabbed at his shirt, tearing off the bottom and pressing it against the cruel slice.
Charon watched him through bleary eyes. There was something about the boy that seemed familiar, in a far distant part of his mind, but he could not place it. And at the moment, his thoughts were just not clear enough to attempt sorting it out.
Fakir swore again. “Imagine, me thinking I was a knight,” he spat under his breath. “I can’t protect anyone. I’m nothing but a joke.” His drenched hair fell over his eyes. In frustration he tried to blow it aside. He could not let go of the wound to push it away; he had to apply constant pressure.
Slowly and gently Ahiru reached out, brushing Fakir’s hair to the side. He looked to her in surprise and gratitude. She blushed, looking awkward but still determined.
“I still don’t remember you, but somehow I’m sure you’re a good person,” she said. “I feel like I know that. And I know you’ll do everything you can to help Charon.”
Fakir swallowed the lump of heartache and despair and guilt in his throat, but it only returned. “Yeah,” he choked out. “I will.”
But how much would that be?
****
Autor did indeed need help walking, much to his chagrin. But it was not bad at all when it was Rue who guided him. She placed his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist and patiently walked alongside him as they exited the palace and made their way to the swan carriage that she had ordered to have prepared at the doorway.
Autor was red the entire time. And while he greatly enjoyed being so close to Rue, at the same time he felt a melancholy air. She saw him as nothing more than a friend. Though he had come to see the value of true friends, it was painful when he loved her in a different way. But he stayed silent, focusing his energy on half-walking, half-limping to the carriage.
“I can make it from here,” he said when they arrived.
Rue loosened her hold on him, allowing him to climb unsteadily into the cab on his own. She followed him in before Uzura scrambled in after them and sat down on the side, staring in fascination as the swans began to lift them into the sky.
“We should look for Mytho as we go,” Rue said. “If he’s available, he’ll want to go to Fakir too.”
“. . . That’s true,” Autor said, pushing up his wandering glasses.
Rue gave him a sideways glance. “He has his horse,” she said. “He’d travel on that. Besides, there’s no room in the carriage for anyone else.”
Autor flushed again. “O-of course,” he stammered. He glanced out the other side of the carriage. His amazement over their ascent was only a partial façade; it was truly exhilarating.
Rue let out a quiet sigh. The topic of Autor’s unrequited feelings for her was not something either of them really wanted to get into now. Instead she would go back to something else.
“. . . It’s hard having once been the antagonist, isn’t it.”
Autor looked to her in surprise. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I know what the palace court thinks of you,” she said. “And even Mytho fell prey to their concerns for a while.” Autor still did not know that Mytho deeply regretted that now. She would tell him, but she was sure Mytho wanted to be the one to do so.
Autor averted his gaze. “It’s nothing that wouldn’t be expected,” he said. “Or deserved.” He glanced to her again. “But I was told that you spoke in my favor.”
Rue nodded. “I was sure you weren’t responsible this time,” she said. “But tell me, Autor-have you been able to get back to your old life?”
“Yes,” Autor said. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve been doing my best.” He looked down, absently running his right hand over the scar on his left. “I’ve had to re-earn my trust from the others.”
“And from yourself?”
Autor stiffened. “That too,” he said. “Which is actually much more difficult.”
Rue gave a wan smile. “It is,” she agreed. “There’s always that fear of wondering if someday you might turn back, if the slightest hint of a darker thought could lead to a place you don’t want to go.”
Now his eyes registered visible shock. “Rue, you . . . ?” he said.
She nodded. “I still don’t fully trust myself,” she said. “I’m not sure I ever really will.”
He turned to face her more completely. “Of course you will!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Surely in time you’ll see that you’ve changed.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, “if I truly have.”
“But you have!” Autor protested. “I remember when you came to me at the theatre I invented and told me about your past. You were trying to save me from the darkness. You wouldn’t have been so determined if a change hadn’t already taken place in your heart.”
“I knew what the darkness would do to you,” she said, “and what it would do after you came back to yourself. I knew how it would continue to torture you, making you feel not only regret and horror and guilt, but fear.”
Autor swallowed hard. “I’m not going to fear the darkness any more,” he said. “That was what I vowed when I made the decision to try to save Fakir with my music.”
Now it was Rue who looked surprised. “Really, Autor?” she said.
He nodded. “If I had kept being afraid of it, I couldn’t have done what I did,” he said. He looked at her firmly. “Rue, you don’t have to fear it, either. Of course we’ll continue to have darkness in our hearts. Everyone does. But that doesn’t mean we’ll give in to it. It doesn’t mean we should live in fear that we will.”
Rue gazed at him for a long moment before she spoke again. “Autor . . . you’ve gotten to a place I’m still trying to find,” she said at last. “I don’t know when or how I’ll get there. But thank you.” A smirk played on her lips now. “I was actually going about this thinking maybe I could help you. Instead, it’s you who’s helped.”
Autor’s cheeks colored. “I don’t want you to suffer anymore,” he said. “You deserve to be happy, Rue.”
Rue blushed a bit now. “I am,” she said quietly.
“Truly happy, without fear,” Autor said.
Uzura chose that moment to interrupt the conversation. “Ohh! It’s raining on the mountain zura!” she announced. “The smoke’s going zura!”
Autor blinked in surprise. “It is?!” he said, leaning forward to look.
Rue reached behind them, pulling the canopy out and over the top of the cab to keep the rain from coming in on them. “That’s strange,” she said. “Is the Story doing that? Or is it Fakir?”
“Who’s Fakir zura?”
Both Rue and Autor started, facing the child in disbelief. Her eyes were innocent, but blank.
“Uzura, you don’t know Fakir?” Rue asked carefully.
She shook her head. “Should I know zura?”
Autor continued to stare. “Do you know us?” he demanded.
“Yes zura!” Uzura said. “You’re Autor and you’re Rue zura!”
“Then it’s only Fakir you’ve forgotten.” Autor slumped back, stunned by this development. “This has to be the Story’s doing. But does that mean we’ll all forget?”
Rue’s eyes widened. What about the message they needed to take to him? Would their journey be for naught? If they forgot Fakir, they would not even know that they needed to deliver the message.
Autor looked to her, worry in his eyes. “Rue, no matter what, one of us has to remember,” he said.
She gave a nod. “Both of us, if we can manage it,” she said.
Silent prayers ran through their minds and hearts as the carriage drew closer to the mountain.
****
Mytho frowned as he looked up from where he was assisting the rescue effort in the village. The object in the sky had captured his attention just as he had been lifting a child through the window of her family’s ruined house.
“That’s the royal carriage,” he breathed.
“Whatever is it doing out?” frowned one of the guards who had come with him.
Mytho shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’d better find out. It’s going towards that mountain.” He passed the sniffling child to the surprised guard. “Johan, can you help this girl find her parents? They’re back at the temporary shelter and they’re very worried.”
Johan awkwardly took the girl into his arms. “Of course, my Prince,” he said.
Mytho smiled. “I shouldn’t be long,” he said. Climbing onto his horse, he directed it to set off at a brisk trot. He stared into the sky, hoping to keep the carriage in sight.
“Are you up there, Rue?” he wondered aloud. “Why?”
It was not likely to be Fakir; he would prefer traveling by horse. It surely must be Rue, but what was so important about the mountain? The carriage was heading straight for it as though the occupant knew exactly what destination was desired.
He frowned. He had not even been able to talk with Fakir since Autor had gotten hurt. First he had needed to speak with his parents and quell the people’s fears. Then Rue had come and he had informed her of the day’s long series of events. And just when he had hoped he could go to Fakir a messenger had burst in with news that some of the villagers were trapped because of the earthquake. Mytho had debated with a heavy heart, but had determined that speaking to Fakir would still have to wait.
He had been comforted knowing Ahiru was with Fakir, but he had felt guilty anyway. Why did so much have to happen at once? One problem was barely being dealt with before another appeared. The Story was not wasting any time.
The carriage was flying over the mountain now. And it looked like the smoke that had clogged the nearby sky before had dissipated. That was strange. All of it was strange.
He spurred the horse to go faster. Rue must be up there and he needed to know why.
But . . . what was this feeling that he had suddenly forgot something important?
Or someone. Hadn’t he just been thinking that someone he cared about dearly might have taken a steed?
He frowned. Who would do that?
“Am I being manipulated again?” he said aloud, worry saturating his tone.
The horse’s hooves pounding on the ground could give him no answers.
****
Fakir was still tending to Charon’s wound when the sound of a galloping horse filled the air. Both he and Ahiru turned to look in surprise.
“Mytho!” Ahiru exclaimed, as the Prince rode into view. Relief spread over her features. “Mytho, we need help! Charon’s been hurt!”
Mytho stared at the scene, alarm passing through his eyes. “How badly?” he asked, looking from Ahiru to Fakir. He stiffened in shock. This person looked strikingly like Lohengrin, his knight who had been killed. But that was impossible.
“I’m not sure,” Ahiru said.
Fakir opened his mouth to respond, but Mytho’s expression gave him pause. “What is it?” he asked.
But Mytho shook his head. “Nevermind; it’s unimportant right now.” He bent down, seeing the blood-soaked cloth Fakir was pressing against the wound. “Has the bleeding stopped?”
“It’s slowed,” Fakir said. “But he needs medical help right now. He passed out again a few minutes ago.”
Mytho nodded and straightened. “I’ll go back to the palace and let the medics know,” he said. “I won’t return without help.” He looked up at the sky. “Rue must be coming this way. Please tell her what I’m doing.”
Ahiru was again surprised. “Rue is?!” she said. “But she’s supposed to be with Autor!”
“Someone’s coming in the swan carriage,” Fakir noted as he looked into the sky. He was only just seeing it now; he had been far too involved with Charon’s sword wound to pay much heed to anything else.
“Maybe Autor is with Rue,” Mytho suggested. “I’ll be back soon.” He climbed back onto his horse and rode off, heading back down the mountain.
Ahiru gazed after him. “Something seemed strange,” she said. “Mytho gave you a really funny look. I wonder why?”
Fakir grunted and looked down to Charon’s injury. Did Mytho not remember him either? It was hard to tell from Mytho’s stunned expression alone, but he had seemed distant somehow. On the other hand, maybe he was just worried about Charon. There had not really been any chance for a real conversation.
Still, he could not ignore the possibility that Mytho simply did not know him anymore. And it stabbed him hard. Mytho had always known who he was, even while heartless. And as Mytho had begun to regain his feelings, he had cared about Fakir all the more deeply as a brother and friend.
Fakir clenched his teeth. Everyone around him was forgetting, while he was remembering more and more. The Story must be laughing now, wherever it was.
“Fakir!”
He started at the voice. “Autor?” he breathed. He jerked up, seeing the carriage come to a smooth landing on the mountainside. Uzura got out, followed by a concerned Rue. Autor remained inside, but he leaned over the edge of the cab.
Ahiru leaped to her feet. “Autor!” she burst out, both in shock and joy. “You’re awake! But what are you doing here?! And Rue and Uzura, too?!” She ran over to their friends in amazement.
“We came to tell Fakir a theory I have,” Autor said, looking to Ahiru and then back to Fakir. “But there’s a problem.”
Uzura tapped out a beat of introduction on her drum. “Are you Fakir zura?” she chirped, looking to Fakir in fascination. But then she caught sight of Charon and ran the rest of the way over to him, confusion and alarm in her eyes. “What happened zura?!”
Rue frowned deeply, studying the scene. “Someone should get the palace medics,” she said.
“Mytho was just here,” Fakir said shortly. “He’s doing that.” He watched Uzura hurry over and kneel down, her blue eyes filling with tears to see Charon lying so still.
“Will he be okay zura?!” the puppet exclaimed.
“Yeah,” Fakir said, praying it was true.
She did not remember Fakir, either. And from Rue’s expression, neither did she. Only Autor was still clinging to some knowledge of Fakir’s identity, but he would surely not be immune indefinitely.
“Autor, what’s your theory?” Fakir asked. There would be time for a proper reunion later. Right now, time was of the essence.
Autor pushed up his glasses. “These sentient Stories are brought to life because of the parts of the writer’s soul that he puts into them,” he said. “The Story of yours that’s wreaking havoc now was given life from your desire to protect people and give them freedom from Drosselmeyer’s Story. No matter how bitter and cruel it’s become, that part of you is its lifeforce. If you can somehow reach that lifeforce, maybe you can turn the Story back to its original objective.”
Fakir’s eyes widened. “How do you know this?!” he demanded.
“Nevermind that!” Autor retorted. “Once Charon is helped, just get to work.”
Confusion passed over his features in the next moment. He stared at Fakir blankly, then looked uncomfortable. “What was I just saying?” he wondered. “And who are you?”
Fakir felt ill. “Nevermind,” he said, throwing Autor’s words back at him. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He looked back to Charon. As soon as the medics came, he would have to get to work, as Autor had said. He would go to the carriage, where the canvas would protect the writing materials from the rain, and try to get through to the heart of his Story. He had to put an end to this! He had to restore not only his memories, but everyone else’s. And it all had to be done before morning.
Ahiru looked back and forth between them, biting her lip. At last she stepped closer to Fakir. Her heart was twisting for a reason she did not understand and could not explain.
“Um,” she began, but then was not sure how to continue. She shifted her weight. “I’m really sorry none of us remember you.” She swallowed hard. “I just have this feeling we’re all supposed to, and that deep down I want to remember you more than anything else, but I just can’t!” She squeezed her eyes shut as several despairing tears slipped free.
Fakir stared at her. How was it that she was able to feel that she was supposed to know him? He had not had any such feelings about her or any of the others, unless he had simply refused to acknowledge them the way he had staunchly refused to even consider that he was not Lohengrin. In any case, that stabbed him even deeper.
“It’s alright,” he said finally, keeping his voice low. “You’ll remember. All of us will.” Determination filled his tone. “I promise.”
Ahiru looked at him in surprise, but then nodded. “It’s funny,” she said, “but I believe you.”
Fakir averted his gaze. It’s funny, alright, he said bitterly. And I can’t let her or anyone else down again.
It was not long before Mytho arrived with the medics and another carriage in tow. In hindsight, Fakir supposed, he should have found it strange that the Story had allowed it to happen. He should have found it strange that Autor had kept his knowledge of Fakir long enough to deliver his message-though perhaps that had been something the Story had not intended.
But as Fakir stood and backed away to let the medics take care of Charon, holding his hands into the rain to cleanse them of blood, the Story made its next move.
The thunder boomed overhead as a warning or as a threat. Even as Fakir suddenly realized something was wrong, and even as he looked to the sky in surprise, it was too late. Something on fire pierced his back and charged throughout it before then swiftly spreading to his entire body.
Ahiru’s horrified scream filled Fakir’s ears as he sank to the grass, his eyes closing against his will.
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,242
Main Characters: Fakir, Ahiru, Autor, Rue, Mytho, Charon, Uzura
Summary: One by one, the Story makes good on its cruel threat.
Fanfiction.net Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5930393/13/
Will be posted to paranormal25 when complete.
Notes: Thanks to Northeastwind, who inadvertently inspired Rue and Autor’s conversation! Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve done a story this long. It’s fun.
Chapter Thirteen
Fakir coughed behind his free hand, squinting through the thick smoke as his eyes watered. There was no sign of Charon, or his Story, or anyone else. He and Ahiru had been fumbling through this mess for what seemed ages. And the longer they searched, the deeper into the unhealthy clouds they plunged.
“He’s not here!” Ahiru cried in despair at his side. “What are we going to do?! We can’t leave him here!”
“We have to keep looking,” Fakir said.
He was trying not to let his heart ache, to push aside the anguish that had been swiftly filling his soul since realizing Ahiru did not know him, but it was impossible to hide from it altogether. She had fought so hard to save him, to get him to remember her and everyone and everything else, and now she was the one with blank eyes, looking at him as though he were a stranger.
And he remembered. He remembered. She was Ahiru, the annoying girl who had always ended up coming around Mytho, who had tried to restore his heart as Princess Tutu even when Fakir had bitterly opposed her. The brave girl who had never given up, who had finally worked her way into Fakir’s heart and changed him because of her hope and her determination.
The girl he loved.
He glanced down at the satchel she was carrying, barely able to even see its outline. Would it be possible to write them out of this mess? The Story had written them into it. If one of them had a flashlight, maybe he could try writing that it started to rain and the smoke dispersed or something like that.
He frowned. Was it really that simple? His memories were still not complete, but somehow it seemed that Story-Spinning was not just putting on paper what he wanted to say. The trouble he had gone through attempting to write back at the palace testified to that.
“What are we waiting for?!” Ahiru exclaimed. “Let’s go!”
“Wait a minute,” Fakir shot back. He grabbed at the flap of the bag, pulling it up as he reached for the materials inside. “I’m going to try something. Do you have a flashlight?”
She blinked. “Yeah,” she said. “I had to use one to come up. I thought a lantern might be too dangerous with the earthquakes and stuff.” She pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket and clicked it on.
Fakir nodded in approval. “Hold it so it shines on this,” he said, raising and balancing the paper holder in his left arm and dipping the quill in the ink.
“What are you going to do?!” Ahiru said in disbelief.
“Maybe nothing,” Fakir growled. He pressed the pen to the leaf, willing words to come. To his relief and amazement, they did.
It was then that the storm gathering overhead burst free, sending rain upon the mountaintop and dispelling the growing smoke. This would enable the two youths to find their adopted father and search for the treacherous Story that had written them into this predicament.
Yes, that was right, Fakir remembered, even as he looked at the words in surprise. Charon had taken Ahiru in as he had taken Mytho in before that. With Drosselmeyer’s Story ended, Ahiru had needed someone to take legal guardianship of her after becoming a girl again. Charon, knowing the truth about her origins, had been the most logical choice.
Ahiru coughed, squinting at the words on the page. “Is it working?” she asked.
Fakir looked up, studying the scene around them. Overhead the thunder rumbled.
It was only as the rain began to pour down moments later that something else occurred to him. He swore, shoving the papers back into the satchel before they could get wet.
“This had better work,” he said. “Unless there’s a place to go to get out of the rain, I’m not going to be able to write anymore.”
“Well, at least we can breathe now!” Ahiru said. She heaved a sigh of relief as the cleansing water swept over the mountain, washing the smoke into nothingness.
Fakir frowned. “Something doesn’t seem right,” he muttered. “That was too easy.”
Ahiru froze, looking over her shoulder at him. “So we didn’t win?!” she gasped.
“I don’t know,” Fakir said. “Come on, let’s find Charon.” He grabbed her wrist and started off in determination. He had been able to write the part about Charon with ease, so did that mean they would find him?
His stomach knotted. If nothing was going to go as it should, what if they found Charon in a bad state? The Story had threatened that . . .
He did not finish that thought. Instead he broke into a run, pulling Ahiru with him.
“Hey!” she cried, nearly stumbling over a rock. “Don’t go so fast! We might fall down the mountain!”
“You might, but you’re not going to because I won’t let you,” Fakir retorted. “Charon might be hurt.” The longer they ran, the more probable the thought became. Panic rose in his heart as he pressed forward in desperation, calling for the blacksmith.
Ahiru suddenly gave a cry of horror. “Is that blood?!” she burst out, pointing to a downhill trail of diluted crimson mixed with water.
Fakir flinched. He turned, staring at the sight. It was as he feared.
“Charon!” he screamed. He kept hold of Ahiru’s wrist as he ran forward, frantic both to find the man and to not let anything more happen to Ahiru. The girl struggled to keep pace with him; even though she was a fast runner, this was difficult terrain and it was hard to move fast with her wrist being held on to.
But all such thoughts vanished as they found a limp hand lying in the grass. Fakir’s heart dropped as he released Ahiru and fell to his knees. “Charon!” he yelled again. He was trembling in sickened horror and denial.
“Charon!” Ahiru echoed. Tears pricked her eyes. “Charon, wake up!”
The man was sprawled on his back, his face twisted in pain. His other hand was clutching his side as blood slipped through his fingers. At the sound of the teens’ voices he grunted, forcing his eyes open.
“Ahiru?” he rasped. He looked to Fakir. “Who . . . ?”
Fakir’s blood ran cold. “Charon. . . .”
He reached to pry the large hand away from the wound. “You don’t know me at all?” he asked, though he was certain it was in vain.
“No,” Charon frowned, wincing in pain as Fakir forced his hand aside.
Fakir’s gaze traveled over the length of the injury. It had clearly been inflicted by the Story’s sword, but he could not tell how deep it was. He grabbed at his shirt, tearing off the bottom and pressing it against the cruel slice.
Charon watched him through bleary eyes. There was something about the boy that seemed familiar, in a far distant part of his mind, but he could not place it. And at the moment, his thoughts were just not clear enough to attempt sorting it out.
Fakir swore again. “Imagine, me thinking I was a knight,” he spat under his breath. “I can’t protect anyone. I’m nothing but a joke.” His drenched hair fell over his eyes. In frustration he tried to blow it aside. He could not let go of the wound to push it away; he had to apply constant pressure.
Slowly and gently Ahiru reached out, brushing Fakir’s hair to the side. He looked to her in surprise and gratitude. She blushed, looking awkward but still determined.
“I still don’t remember you, but somehow I’m sure you’re a good person,” she said. “I feel like I know that. And I know you’ll do everything you can to help Charon.”
Fakir swallowed the lump of heartache and despair and guilt in his throat, but it only returned. “Yeah,” he choked out. “I will.”
But how much would that be?
****
Autor did indeed need help walking, much to his chagrin. But it was not bad at all when it was Rue who guided him. She placed his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist and patiently walked alongside him as they exited the palace and made their way to the swan carriage that she had ordered to have prepared at the doorway.
Autor was red the entire time. And while he greatly enjoyed being so close to Rue, at the same time he felt a melancholy air. She saw him as nothing more than a friend. Though he had come to see the value of true friends, it was painful when he loved her in a different way. But he stayed silent, focusing his energy on half-walking, half-limping to the carriage.
“I can make it from here,” he said when they arrived.
Rue loosened her hold on him, allowing him to climb unsteadily into the cab on his own. She followed him in before Uzura scrambled in after them and sat down on the side, staring in fascination as the swans began to lift them into the sky.
“We should look for Mytho as we go,” Rue said. “If he’s available, he’ll want to go to Fakir too.”
“. . . That’s true,” Autor said, pushing up his wandering glasses.
Rue gave him a sideways glance. “He has his horse,” she said. “He’d travel on that. Besides, there’s no room in the carriage for anyone else.”
Autor flushed again. “O-of course,” he stammered. He glanced out the other side of the carriage. His amazement over their ascent was only a partial façade; it was truly exhilarating.
Rue let out a quiet sigh. The topic of Autor’s unrequited feelings for her was not something either of them really wanted to get into now. Instead she would go back to something else.
“. . . It’s hard having once been the antagonist, isn’t it.”
Autor looked to her in surprise. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I know what the palace court thinks of you,” she said. “And even Mytho fell prey to their concerns for a while.” Autor still did not know that Mytho deeply regretted that now. She would tell him, but she was sure Mytho wanted to be the one to do so.
Autor averted his gaze. “It’s nothing that wouldn’t be expected,” he said. “Or deserved.” He glanced to her again. “But I was told that you spoke in my favor.”
Rue nodded. “I was sure you weren’t responsible this time,” she said. “But tell me, Autor-have you been able to get back to your old life?”
“Yes,” Autor said. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve been doing my best.” He looked down, absently running his right hand over the scar on his left. “I’ve had to re-earn my trust from the others.”
“And from yourself?”
Autor stiffened. “That too,” he said. “Which is actually much more difficult.”
Rue gave a wan smile. “It is,” she agreed. “There’s always that fear of wondering if someday you might turn back, if the slightest hint of a darker thought could lead to a place you don’t want to go.”
Now his eyes registered visible shock. “Rue, you . . . ?” he said.
She nodded. “I still don’t fully trust myself,” she said. “I’m not sure I ever really will.”
He turned to face her more completely. “Of course you will!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Surely in time you’ll see that you’ve changed.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, “if I truly have.”
“But you have!” Autor protested. “I remember when you came to me at the theatre I invented and told me about your past. You were trying to save me from the darkness. You wouldn’t have been so determined if a change hadn’t already taken place in your heart.”
“I knew what the darkness would do to you,” she said, “and what it would do after you came back to yourself. I knew how it would continue to torture you, making you feel not only regret and horror and guilt, but fear.”
Autor swallowed hard. “I’m not going to fear the darkness any more,” he said. “That was what I vowed when I made the decision to try to save Fakir with my music.”
Now it was Rue who looked surprised. “Really, Autor?” she said.
He nodded. “If I had kept being afraid of it, I couldn’t have done what I did,” he said. He looked at her firmly. “Rue, you don’t have to fear it, either. Of course we’ll continue to have darkness in our hearts. Everyone does. But that doesn’t mean we’ll give in to it. It doesn’t mean we should live in fear that we will.”
Rue gazed at him for a long moment before she spoke again. “Autor . . . you’ve gotten to a place I’m still trying to find,” she said at last. “I don’t know when or how I’ll get there. But thank you.” A smirk played on her lips now. “I was actually going about this thinking maybe I could help you. Instead, it’s you who’s helped.”
Autor’s cheeks colored. “I don’t want you to suffer anymore,” he said. “You deserve to be happy, Rue.”
Rue blushed a bit now. “I am,” she said quietly.
“Truly happy, without fear,” Autor said.
Uzura chose that moment to interrupt the conversation. “Ohh! It’s raining on the mountain zura!” she announced. “The smoke’s going zura!”
Autor blinked in surprise. “It is?!” he said, leaning forward to look.
Rue reached behind them, pulling the canopy out and over the top of the cab to keep the rain from coming in on them. “That’s strange,” she said. “Is the Story doing that? Or is it Fakir?”
“Who’s Fakir zura?”
Both Rue and Autor started, facing the child in disbelief. Her eyes were innocent, but blank.
“Uzura, you don’t know Fakir?” Rue asked carefully.
She shook her head. “Should I know zura?”
Autor continued to stare. “Do you know us?” he demanded.
“Yes zura!” Uzura said. “You’re Autor and you’re Rue zura!”
“Then it’s only Fakir you’ve forgotten.” Autor slumped back, stunned by this development. “This has to be the Story’s doing. But does that mean we’ll all forget?”
Rue’s eyes widened. What about the message they needed to take to him? Would their journey be for naught? If they forgot Fakir, they would not even know that they needed to deliver the message.
Autor looked to her, worry in his eyes. “Rue, no matter what, one of us has to remember,” he said.
She gave a nod. “Both of us, if we can manage it,” she said.
Silent prayers ran through their minds and hearts as the carriage drew closer to the mountain.
****
Mytho frowned as he looked up from where he was assisting the rescue effort in the village. The object in the sky had captured his attention just as he had been lifting a child through the window of her family’s ruined house.
“That’s the royal carriage,” he breathed.
“Whatever is it doing out?” frowned one of the guards who had come with him.
Mytho shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’d better find out. It’s going towards that mountain.” He passed the sniffling child to the surprised guard. “Johan, can you help this girl find her parents? They’re back at the temporary shelter and they’re very worried.”
Johan awkwardly took the girl into his arms. “Of course, my Prince,” he said.
Mytho smiled. “I shouldn’t be long,” he said. Climbing onto his horse, he directed it to set off at a brisk trot. He stared into the sky, hoping to keep the carriage in sight.
“Are you up there, Rue?” he wondered aloud. “Why?”
It was not likely to be Fakir; he would prefer traveling by horse. It surely must be Rue, but what was so important about the mountain? The carriage was heading straight for it as though the occupant knew exactly what destination was desired.
He frowned. He had not even been able to talk with Fakir since Autor had gotten hurt. First he had needed to speak with his parents and quell the people’s fears. Then Rue had come and he had informed her of the day’s long series of events. And just when he had hoped he could go to Fakir a messenger had burst in with news that some of the villagers were trapped because of the earthquake. Mytho had debated with a heavy heart, but had determined that speaking to Fakir would still have to wait.
He had been comforted knowing Ahiru was with Fakir, but he had felt guilty anyway. Why did so much have to happen at once? One problem was barely being dealt with before another appeared. The Story was not wasting any time.
The carriage was flying over the mountain now. And it looked like the smoke that had clogged the nearby sky before had dissipated. That was strange. All of it was strange.
He spurred the horse to go faster. Rue must be up there and he needed to know why.
But . . . what was this feeling that he had suddenly forgot something important?
Or someone. Hadn’t he just been thinking that someone he cared about dearly might have taken a steed?
He frowned. Who would do that?
“Am I being manipulated again?” he said aloud, worry saturating his tone.
The horse’s hooves pounding on the ground could give him no answers.
****
Fakir was still tending to Charon’s wound when the sound of a galloping horse filled the air. Both he and Ahiru turned to look in surprise.
“Mytho!” Ahiru exclaimed, as the Prince rode into view. Relief spread over her features. “Mytho, we need help! Charon’s been hurt!”
Mytho stared at the scene, alarm passing through his eyes. “How badly?” he asked, looking from Ahiru to Fakir. He stiffened in shock. This person looked strikingly like Lohengrin, his knight who had been killed. But that was impossible.
“I’m not sure,” Ahiru said.
Fakir opened his mouth to respond, but Mytho’s expression gave him pause. “What is it?” he asked.
But Mytho shook his head. “Nevermind; it’s unimportant right now.” He bent down, seeing the blood-soaked cloth Fakir was pressing against the wound. “Has the bleeding stopped?”
“It’s slowed,” Fakir said. “But he needs medical help right now. He passed out again a few minutes ago.”
Mytho nodded and straightened. “I’ll go back to the palace and let the medics know,” he said. “I won’t return without help.” He looked up at the sky. “Rue must be coming this way. Please tell her what I’m doing.”
Ahiru was again surprised. “Rue is?!” she said. “But she’s supposed to be with Autor!”
“Someone’s coming in the swan carriage,” Fakir noted as he looked into the sky. He was only just seeing it now; he had been far too involved with Charon’s sword wound to pay much heed to anything else.
“Maybe Autor is with Rue,” Mytho suggested. “I’ll be back soon.” He climbed back onto his horse and rode off, heading back down the mountain.
Ahiru gazed after him. “Something seemed strange,” she said. “Mytho gave you a really funny look. I wonder why?”
Fakir grunted and looked down to Charon’s injury. Did Mytho not remember him either? It was hard to tell from Mytho’s stunned expression alone, but he had seemed distant somehow. On the other hand, maybe he was just worried about Charon. There had not really been any chance for a real conversation.
Still, he could not ignore the possibility that Mytho simply did not know him anymore. And it stabbed him hard. Mytho had always known who he was, even while heartless. And as Mytho had begun to regain his feelings, he had cared about Fakir all the more deeply as a brother and friend.
Fakir clenched his teeth. Everyone around him was forgetting, while he was remembering more and more. The Story must be laughing now, wherever it was.
“Fakir!”
He started at the voice. “Autor?” he breathed. He jerked up, seeing the carriage come to a smooth landing on the mountainside. Uzura got out, followed by a concerned Rue. Autor remained inside, but he leaned over the edge of the cab.
Ahiru leaped to her feet. “Autor!” she burst out, both in shock and joy. “You’re awake! But what are you doing here?! And Rue and Uzura, too?!” She ran over to their friends in amazement.
“We came to tell Fakir a theory I have,” Autor said, looking to Ahiru and then back to Fakir. “But there’s a problem.”
Uzura tapped out a beat of introduction on her drum. “Are you Fakir zura?” she chirped, looking to Fakir in fascination. But then she caught sight of Charon and ran the rest of the way over to him, confusion and alarm in her eyes. “What happened zura?!”
Rue frowned deeply, studying the scene. “Someone should get the palace medics,” she said.
“Mytho was just here,” Fakir said shortly. “He’s doing that.” He watched Uzura hurry over and kneel down, her blue eyes filling with tears to see Charon lying so still.
“Will he be okay zura?!” the puppet exclaimed.
“Yeah,” Fakir said, praying it was true.
She did not remember Fakir, either. And from Rue’s expression, neither did she. Only Autor was still clinging to some knowledge of Fakir’s identity, but he would surely not be immune indefinitely.
“Autor, what’s your theory?” Fakir asked. There would be time for a proper reunion later. Right now, time was of the essence.
Autor pushed up his glasses. “These sentient Stories are brought to life because of the parts of the writer’s soul that he puts into them,” he said. “The Story of yours that’s wreaking havoc now was given life from your desire to protect people and give them freedom from Drosselmeyer’s Story. No matter how bitter and cruel it’s become, that part of you is its lifeforce. If you can somehow reach that lifeforce, maybe you can turn the Story back to its original objective.”
Fakir’s eyes widened. “How do you know this?!” he demanded.
“Nevermind that!” Autor retorted. “Once Charon is helped, just get to work.”
Confusion passed over his features in the next moment. He stared at Fakir blankly, then looked uncomfortable. “What was I just saying?” he wondered. “And who are you?”
Fakir felt ill. “Nevermind,” he said, throwing Autor’s words back at him. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He looked back to Charon. As soon as the medics came, he would have to get to work, as Autor had said. He would go to the carriage, where the canvas would protect the writing materials from the rain, and try to get through to the heart of his Story. He had to put an end to this! He had to restore not only his memories, but everyone else’s. And it all had to be done before morning.
Ahiru looked back and forth between them, biting her lip. At last she stepped closer to Fakir. Her heart was twisting for a reason she did not understand and could not explain.
“Um,” she began, but then was not sure how to continue. She shifted her weight. “I’m really sorry none of us remember you.” She swallowed hard. “I just have this feeling we’re all supposed to, and that deep down I want to remember you more than anything else, but I just can’t!” She squeezed her eyes shut as several despairing tears slipped free.
Fakir stared at her. How was it that she was able to feel that she was supposed to know him? He had not had any such feelings about her or any of the others, unless he had simply refused to acknowledge them the way he had staunchly refused to even consider that he was not Lohengrin. In any case, that stabbed him even deeper.
“It’s alright,” he said finally, keeping his voice low. “You’ll remember. All of us will.” Determination filled his tone. “I promise.”
Ahiru looked at him in surprise, but then nodded. “It’s funny,” she said, “but I believe you.”
Fakir averted his gaze. It’s funny, alright, he said bitterly. And I can’t let her or anyone else down again.
It was not long before Mytho arrived with the medics and another carriage in tow. In hindsight, Fakir supposed, he should have found it strange that the Story had allowed it to happen. He should have found it strange that Autor had kept his knowledge of Fakir long enough to deliver his message-though perhaps that had been something the Story had not intended.
But as Fakir stood and backed away to let the medics take care of Charon, holding his hands into the rain to cleanse them of blood, the Story made its next move.
The thunder boomed overhead as a warning or as a threat. Even as Fakir suddenly realized something was wrong, and even as he looked to the sky in surprise, it was too late. Something on fire pierced his back and charged throughout it before then swiftly spreading to his entire body.
Ahiru’s horrified scream filled Fakir’s ears as he sank to the grass, his eyes closing against his will.