The Spinners: The test

[fairytaleknight]

"Straighten up. Now I have to put you to the test."

Fakir gets to his feet, his eyes still on the family tree Autor showed him. I'm a descendant of Drosselmeyer? A direct descendant?

My ancestry is not the point.

"I'm ready," says Fakir. "Test me."

Comments

[herr_bookman]

"Just stand there," Autor says, and falls silent while he folds up the family tree.

"There's a ritual which sharpens the mind and spirit involving your standing there for three days and nights, doing nothing," the boy explains. "Ruminating on the craft. Drosselmeyer did this, and so should we."

Autor crosses to his shelf and puts the family tree away.

[fairytaleknight]

Once upon a time there was a king with twelve beautiful daughters. Every night the king locked his daughters up in one small room with one small door. But every morning the princesses' shoes were worn through, as if the princesses had danced in them all night. The king wondered where his daughters went in the night. He commanded that any man who could find their dancing-hall within three days and three nights would marry a princess and become the new king. Any man who failed in that time would be put to death.

I wonder, if he finds the dancing-hall in time, what else will the man find?

"We? Have you performed this ritual?" Fakir asks, positioning himself. For three days and three nights, he'll need steadiness and strength. He stands in a Marozzo pose, legs bent, right leg slightly forward.

[herr_bookman]

"Of course I have," Autor scoffs, adjusting his glasses. "Since I was little."

Autor crosses to the desk with a light step and lifts a book off of it. "To be a Spinner requires dedication. You must hone your craft and revere the works of Drosselmeyer. Ein Wunderlich Mann, which I know you've read. Likely the Wandering Knight. Prinz Und Rabe, naturally."

[fairytaleknight]

Duck, Fakir thinks, would say something ridiculous like, You've been standing in one place since you were little?

Fakir only says, "I've read them."

By now he's read a dozen books with torn bindings, books that begin with Once upon a time but never reach happily ever after. The secret of telling stories without losing control is in there somewhere. If Autor can help him reach it, then Fakir will stand here for weeks if he must.

(If there's a hooded shadow just briefly visible through the window of Drosselmeyer's house, Fakir doesn't see it.)

[herr_bookman]

(Autor doesn't see it either, but he'd recognize who it was if he did.)

The boy leafs through his book, unsure how to proceed. Fakir didn't rise to his bait. "Let's see. There are things you'll need when you start Spinning--provided you even can--most of which I've explained already," he rambles. "The paper, the quill, the ink... Have you thought about what you'll Spin?"

[fairytaleknight]

--a small child, a crayon in his hands, who dreamed of defeating the Raven--

Fakir clenches his jaw. Autor's blow landed this time. "I'll know when I need to."

If he has to listen to Autor for three days and three nights, this is not going to be a useful meditation ritual.

[herr_bookman]

Autor regards him for a while before setting the book on the desk. "Hm! Perhaps you will," he says. "Continue standing there. I'll check on you in a bit."

Then he seats himself at the desk to takes notes.

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir adjusts his pose and checks his breathing. I have to be steady. I have to be strong.

Inhale. Exhale.

I'm supposed to meditate on the craft. Drosselmeyer wrote, and what he wrote came true. How did he do it? How do I do it?

If I'm a descendant of Drosselmeyer, and I have his gift, what does that mean for me?

Inhale. Exhale. Stand in place.

Lost in thought, Fakir forgets Autor utterly.

[herr_bookman]

Autor doesn't--couldn't ever--forget Fakir. He diagrams Prinz und Rabe again, starting at the first chapter and working his way through. Plot, word construction, foreshadowing--he's seen it all before, and almost knows the book by heart, now. Still, it needs done, and it passes the time.

It's several hours before he stretches at the desk, glancing up to check on his wayward pupil. Autor fills a glass half-full of water and approaches Fakir. "Here. It wouldn't do to have you pass out from the effort of thinking."

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir blinks, focuses on Autor and the glass of water.

He finds himself hungry, and his thighs and lower back are sore. Pain is nothing unusual, but hunger is a surprise. Fakir is used to three large meals per day, to support his body through hours of ballet and sword practice.

I have to work through this.

Fakir accepts the glass of water, with a nod of thanks, and drinks it slowly. (He didn't even hear Autor's jibe about "the effort of thinking.")

If I make it through this, I will be a writer. I will free Mytho from the Raven's blood. I will rescue the town from the Raven.

I tried before. I failed.

This time will be different.

Duck needs me. I can't fail her again.

The empty glass is distracting; it changes Fakir's balance. There's no table or desk within reach; Fakir holds it back out to Autor.

"...Thank you," he remembers to say.

[herr_bookman]

Autor takes the glass. "Hm. You're welcome," he says neutrally. "If you need a break for the restroom you may have one."

May. It's strange to Autor to be the one in control of this ritual. Strange, and a little heady. He's in his father's place--well, what used to be his father's place, years ago--as the guide, and teacher. He's proud that he's not leaving Fakir alone for this, as he has been.

And Fakir shows a lot of promise. He's Autor's rival in Spinning, really, but the boy hopes they can trade ideas sometime. If he makes it through this, and the oak tree...

Autor returns to sit at the desk, pulling his sylladex out of his pocket. He calls his food bag out--"Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, or gluttoning on all, or all away*"--and hunts around for an apple, which he bites into.

*Shakespeare, Sonnet 75

[fairytaleknight]

"All right." Fakir honestly hadn't expected breaks to be allowed, but if he's given one, he'll take it. A dancer's body is his instrument; he needs to care for it in order to use it well.

The apple smells delicious, but if Autor has not offered it, Fakir probably is not allowed to eat it. That makes sense.

Fakir walks past Autor's (Drosselmeyer's) desk and around the corner to the restroom. Walking is a surprising relief. In the bathroom, Fakir uses the facilities, washes his face, and runs through a quick, careful series of stretches. He'll have to begin again shortly. Beyond the house, the bells of the clock tower ring the time. Two days and fourteen hours to go.

--

Long past midnight, the moon shines a thin light through the windows of Drosselmeyer's study.

Fakir feels his eyes closing, pushes them open again. His back is aching. He moves his feet into first position and stretches his arms through a sequence of ballet poses. Inhale. Exhale. He's been remembering Drosselmeyer's stories, as best as he can. What do they have in common, Drosselmeyer's knights and dolls and ladies and princes?

"You would know," Fakir says, out loud, to Autor. Fakir isn't even sure if Autor is awake; he's turned in the opposite direction from the desk. "I know that the endings of Drosselmeyer's books don't survive. So the heroes and heroines can't live happily ever after. But are any of the heroes or heroines happy at the points when the books break off?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor's awake. He's sitting on the couch and curled up in a blanket, sipping a cup of tea. He wouldn't miss this first night for the world. He'll sleep on the second and third nights.

"I'm pretty sure they're not," Autor informs him, coming around to face Fakir, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he pads over there in his socks. "When given free reign over his own Stories--that is, when Drosselmeyer wasn't paid to write them--he invariably wrote tragedies," the boy says, resting his teacup in his hand. "There was one that wasn't, but it was more a history book."

Autor adjusts his glasses. "I mean, think of Prinz und Rabe. It's unfinished, but Tutu has vanished, Lohengrin is dead, and the Prince goes to fight the Monstrous Raven. Even if he defeated him, his kingdom is in shambles and half-consumed by the Raven itself."

[fairytaleknight]

Memories are more vivid by this point in Fakir's vigil. The Prince and the Raven's illustration of the Knight, his body torn in two by the Raven, flashes into Fakir's mind and stays there.

Oddly, the image doesn't hurt any more. The Raven hasn't killed Fakir yet.

Fakir nods shortly. His neck is stiff. "But did Drosselmeyer write happy endings even when he was paid for it? What I mean is, is it even possible to spin a story that isn't a tragedy?"

[herr_bookman]

"Sure," Autor says, shrugging. "Why else would they pay him? I doubt they'd have encouraged him to write tragedies that would come true for them."

Autor sips his tea--Drosselmeyer's tea--and orders his next words. "Happy endings are cliché, but if you are indeed a Spinner, you can write whatever strikes your fancy. Reality will bend to your will."

[fairytaleknight]

"Cliché." Fakir's fingers tighten into a fist. He'd knock the teacup out of Autor's hand, if he didn't think he'd lose his balance. "'Happy endings are cliché.' Do you even know what this power means? Why do you think I'm standing here?"

[herr_bookman]

"Clearly because you want a happy ending," Autor says, gesturing with his cup. "Which makes sense. Not everyone's a Drosselmeyer. Not everyone should be."

Autor adjusts his glasses. "You're standing here because you want to challenge everything he is, in fact."

[fairytaleknight]

A happy ending where everyone comes home alive; where the Raven is destroyed; where the Prince is freed; where Tutu doesn't vanish--

Fakir freezes with his arm half-extended. He nearly falls over before regaining his balance and repositioning his feet. Inhale. Exhale.

I want to challenge everything that he is.

I didn't know that.

[herr_bookman]

Autor eyes him critically, not bothering to flinch or take a step back with Fakir's movement.

"But you'll never get there if you can't even handle a simple ritual, Fakir," the boy says with a scoff. He straightens his blazer with one hand. "Honestly. Keep standing there and I'll check on you in the morning."

[fairytaleknight]

--

An hour after sunrise, Fakir's eyes are blurring and his legs are beginning to shake.

Right now, on a normal day, he'd be beginning his morning warmups. He remembers them clearly, and imagines himself running through them: first position, demi-plié, back to standing, demi-plié, back to standing, grande plié.

The mental exercise is almost, but not quite, enough to keep him focused.

[herr_bookman]

Autor steps into his field of vision with another glass of water, filled mostly full this time. "You may have another break," the boy informs him. "Cheer up, you made it though the first night. Two more days to go, and the real test begins!"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir acknowledges Autor with a grunt and accepts the water. He drinks it slowly, careful not to gulp it.

Two more days. One day and seventeen hours, really. A dancer works through pain and exhaustion. A dancer never shows the audience how tired he is or how much he hurts. I will do this.

A short walk and a restroom break help quite a bit. By the time Fakir returns, he can say drily, to Autor, "Did you sleep well?"

[herr_bookman]

"I didn't sleep. I didn't want to miss your first night," Autor explains, shrugging. "I'll cat nap later."

The boy hesitates before asking, "How are you holding up?"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir only shrugs. This is a test. He won't show weakness. But asking questions in order to distract himself is all right.

"You said you've done this yourself?"

[herr_bookman]

"Several times," Autor says, nodding. He curls his hand around his hip. "I wouldn't very well be able to give such a rite if I hadn't been through it myself."

The boy adjusts his glasses, shrugging a little sheepishly. "It... doesn't exactly get easier with practice."

[fairytaleknight]

"It probably isn't allowed to build up to it," Fakir guesses. "If you could stand here for two hours, and then three, and then five, that might help." That's how he learned the sword, at least.

If the one who administers the rite has to have received it first...

"Who did you learn the ritual from?"

[herr_bookman]

"Ah, that makes sense," Autor starts, but then stiffens when Fakir asks his question. The boy straightens his shoulders, flexing his scarred knuckles. "My father."

Autor waves a hand and walks back to the desk. "Keep working. You've a lot to meditate on, I'm sure."

[fairytaleknight]

Ah. No more questions about the father, then.

I wouldn't talk about mine, either.

Fakir inhales, exhales, repositions his feet for steadiness. He's done it enough in the last day that the steps are becoming instinctive.

If the family tree is right, and I'm a descendant of Drosselmeyer, then my father was too. Could he have fought the crows the way I tried to? Could he have saved us?

Did I get in his way?

Fakir sorts through the memories of his childhood, and finds no answer.

--

By midafternoon on the second day, Fakir is seeing flickers from the corners of his eyes, but when he turns to look, there's nothing there. The pages on Drosselmeyer's desk seem to shift of their own accord. He can hear the stories rising from them, read by multiple voices:

Once upon a time there was a princess who dreamed of escape peasant who had three sons man who died. One day the princess cut off her hair and braided a rope peasant said, "My sons, I have no money" man who died laughed and laughed and laughed--

Fakir covers his face with his shaking hands.

[herr_bookman]

Autor flits about during the afternoon, reading books and shelving them. He takes his lunch where Fakir can't see--and knows he can probably smell it. Autor's surprised that he's tempted to go for a run--he's all restless energy--but he doesn't dare leave Fakir.

The boy approaches the aspiring Spinner with another glass of water. He'd like to ask him what he has learned, but that's probably best done when Fakir has had sleep and food.

"You may have another break," Autor quietly informs him.

[fairytaleknight]

If he stops now, Fakir doesn't know if he can start again. But he can't keep going without a rest, so he might as well drink the water and take the break.

In the bathroom, Fakir allows himself a few minutes to sit on the closed toilet and breathe carefully in and out. He keeps his eyes open, for fear he'll fall asleep and fail the whole test. Then Fakir wipes his hands and face with a hot washcloth and returns to the study.

"I'll probably dream of this room," Fakir says.

He didn't mean to say that out loud.

[herr_bookman]

Autor snorts indelicately, setting Fakir's glass aside. "If you're a Spinner, I imagine you'll be coming back," the boy points out, stifling a yawn.

He soon covers his mouth and gives into it, stretching his neck. "You are doing well," Autor grudgingly admits. "You've lasted longer than the first time I performed the ritual."

Of course, he was twelve or so.

[fairytaleknight]

"Spinners have to be here?"

Fakir grimaces. The idea of trying to write in this room, with the cacophony of half-finished stories telling themselves all around him, is a nightmare in itself.

"I'll manage." I will manage. One day and nine hours to go.

[herr_bookman]

"They don't have to be?" Autor confesses, leaning on the bookshelf and folding his arms. "But the desk is here, and the papers, and the ink. You can take them out--all but the desk, leave that here--but there are replicas of Drosselmeyer's other items here that can lend greater weight to your Spinning. I'm sure of it."

Plus, Autor is here. And like it or not, Fakir will need his help to Spin properly. 'People may even die', he'd told Fakir, and wonders if the words had even sunk in yet. He'd tracked the family past Drosselmeyer, read the histories of so many Spinners going insane or dying from accidents bizarre and mundane. It wasn't hard to connect the dots once he knew what power had driven their misery.

He'll come back, Autor tells himself. He'll have to.

[fairytaleknight]

--

When the Goldkrone clock strikes eleven at night, Fakir is alone in the dim light of Drosselmeyer's hanging lamps.

It was a night like this when the Ghost Knight came out of the fog to fight him. It was a night like this when Duck - Princess Tutu - placed herself between Fakir's sword and the Ghost Knight's sword, when she became a wounded duck, pale and bleeding and impossibly small in Fakir's hands. Fakir had lifted her up and carried her to the alley where his door to Milliways used to be. He had banged on the wall with his elbow, but no door had opened. He had taken her home to the smithy and bandaged her himself.

Fakir had hardly breathed until she opened her eyes the next morning.

When did Duck become so precious? How did she -- what did she --

He can see her in his mind, later, once she'd recovered, miming I love you with her hands and body. She'd only been quoting Mytho's mime. That was all right then, wasn't it?

Wait.

But I'm -- I'm not --

I can't be --

Fakir is painfully glad Autor isn't here to see the blush on Fakir's face.

[herr_bookman]

--

If Autor were awake and could read Fakir's thoughts, he'd chide him for focusing on a silly thing like girls--especially that girl, honestly!--even when his own mind wanders horribly during these rites. But Autor is asleep, and he sleeps until mid-morning, as he missed the night before.

The boy stretches, groggily combing his fingers through his hair. He finds his glasses on the table next to the couch and dons them, blinking blearily as his eyes adjust.

Autor heads to the restroom to wash his face, and then crosses to the desk to pour a glass of water for Fakir out of the pitcher. "Break time," he says, offering him the glass. "You're almost there."

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir doesn't waste energy on nodding, or thanking Autor, or even making a sound. Instead he takes the water cup and drinks very slowly: a swallow, a breath, a swallow, another breath. There's a dizzy blackness at the edge of his vision. But he's still standing, with thirteen hours to go.

The walk to and from the bathroom hurts. Fakir's blistered feet will need attention when this is over. (If there's one thing the ballet school is stocked with, it's medication for blistered feet.)

When he returns, Fakir says nothing to Autor. He's beyond words and beyond memories; his mind, at last, is clear and empty, a blank page beside a sealed ink bottle.

[herr_bookman]

Autor recognizes the state he's in, having been in something like it himself. He carries the glass back to the desk and makes himself a cup of tea.

He's done well, Autor thinks, allowing himself the thought. Very well. He can finish the test at the oak tree and then... What if he hears its voice?

The boy nervously glances to Fakir. Well. I've heard it, too. He might hear a sigh, perhaps. Perhaps.

Autor sips his tea, comforted by the fact that he'll be the one in control of Fakir's tests.