13.4

[fairytaleknight]

"Princess Tutu," Fakir gasps, with what remains of his breath. "You must see to Mytho's future."

Good. That's the last thing. The Prince's sword is broken; Mytho won't lose his heart, and Tutu will keep him safe. Fakir can fall now.

The lake closes over him.

(Happiness, to those who accept their fates.)

***

It's quiet down here, lit by a strange and peaceful turquoise light. Fakir knows he's wounded in a dozen places, but he doesn't feel pain. Perhaps he's past pain altogether. Fakir doesn't care very much either way, as he drifts slowly downward. The light is getting dimmer, and the water around him becoming a deeper and deeper shade of blue.

...Shouldn't I have drowned by now?

Comments

[authorsbypass]

The author's attention is elsewhere. Drosselmeyer is in his rocking chair, cackling in delight at the tragic unfolding of his story. Tutu and Kraehe fighting over the prince they both love; the knight fallen, his greatest deeds not enough to save him, and Tutu doomed to never speak her love.

Edel should be on the shelf. She's only a puppet, of course.

(And this time,)

She's not.

(don't start taking an interest in the hearts of humans!)

She's walking instead, tireless as only an automaton can be, halfway between the story and its gears; cobblestones click under her heels, but passersby ghost through her, and with painted wooden eyes she watches the story unfold.

Miss Edel, thank you,, said Duck, who shouldn't have said anything of the sort. I guess we'll be going now.

Drosselmeyer is watching his tragedy unfold. Of course he's laughing.

(And this time...)

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir floats in a thick and heavy darkness.

(There ought to be light. There ought to be a spotlight on Fakir. But the author isn't watching. That author isn't watching, anyway.)

It occurs to Fakir at last -- thoughts move through his mind very slowly, now -- that he is breathing the water without difficulty. But he is bleeding from enough places that he will die, very soon.

Good.

[authorsbypass]

There ought to be light.



Edel is a puppet. She's never had feelings; she carries them in her jewel box and gives them away, and they never belong to her. She has no heart for them to rest in.

But there's something in her anyway, some unfamiliar swelling where a heart should be, some desire that says I want to help them. That says, I want to be worthy of Duck. That says, My friends.

It won't last, Edel knows. She's a puppet. She's not made for this. She's made to serve the author's story. Drosselmeyer will reshape her into what she's supposed to be, the moment he realizes, and she should welcome that. But somehow--

Somehow she doesn't want it to go away.

It'll only last a little while.



She slips between the gears of the story -- it's easy when you know, when it's what you're made to do, and Drosselmeyer never even glances away from his triumph -- and into Duck's room.

"Lamp," she says softly, to the oil lamp burning with a low warm glow by Duck's bed. "I want to shine for someone too."

"Will you help me?"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir closes his eyes.

There's nothing left to see any more, anyway.

I wonder how Duck's doing.

Is she fighting Kraehe? Will she win? Will she take Mytho home, and will they live happily ever after?

It seems a horrible shame to him that he doesn't know and will never know how the story ends.

[authorsbypass]

"Thank you," says Edel to the lamp, smiling a little, as her hands fill with fire.

It seems appropriate to say.

Another slip sideways between moments of the story, and she's in an open courtyard. Somewhere a jester is laughing, fixed in stone, but Edel only smiles at her hands as the flame crackles higher.

Already her paint is a blistering ruin.

[fairytaleknight]

At last, from the blood loss, the shock, and, perhaps, from someone's merciful intervention, Fakir loses consciousness.

He's still floating, limp and still, in the depths of the lake.

[authorsbypass]

And yet, somehow -- somehow Fakir's breathing, deep underwater, and somehow he's floating.

And somewhere, far ahead of him, there's a glow, and the dimmest suggestion of warmth.

[fairytaleknight]

In Fakir's dream, a tree is saying, "The story begins with a happy accident, and ends with the fate for which it's meant."

"I've heard that before," says Fakir. "But have we got to the ending yet? And were my fingers always branches?"

They're very cold branches, actually. "I'm losing feeling," Fakir tells the tree. "I always thought dying would be faster."

"That's because you're a puppet," the tree replies. "Someone's forgotten to pull the strings."

But if the author isn't paying attention, why is Fakir suddenly feeling warmer?

[authorsbypass]

"To those who accept everything comes happiness," says the tree's gentle voice.

There's a rustling sound behind it; a dry crackling, like dead leaves underfoot.

"To those who fight everything comes glory."

There's a glow in the distance, brighter now than it was. Bright enough to shine as a spot of red through Fakir's closed eyelids.

"What is the relationship between the story and its setting?"

Edel has learned something, she thinks, and with the thought comes an unfamiliar feeling in her heartless wooden chest. She thinks it's called satisfaction.

What she's learned: dying is slow, but it's easy. You just accept the flames, and you fall to pieces among them. And Drosselmeyer hasn't even noticed.

She's a bonfire now, rich and hot, and the flames rise like a Midsummer celebration.

[fairytaleknight]

"The setting," Fakir dreams he is saying, "is the only place where the story can happen. What setting are we in?"

Even from inside his dream, Fakir hears the crackling and feels the heat of the bonfire. He tries to walk towards it, but his legs are rooted to the earth.

"We are outside of the tale, and in the heart of it."

The tree laughs, and in that moment Fakir is no longer rooted, no longer drowning, hardly even dreaming. He lies, drenched and shivering and not quite conscious, at Edel's feet.

[authorsbypass]

Edel is inside the story, and outside of it, and slipping free of it with every bit of her that turns to charcoal and ash. Her jewelry box is burning with her, the barrel organ's wheel and trumpet heaped untidily atop it. It's empty now; the gems belong to the story, and the author.

It's so easy, now that she's already burning. All she has to do is draw him in: from one stage set to another, and into the light. They're very nearly the same.

She smiles, even though her face is gone.

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir opens his eyes. He's cold, and wet, and he has a dozen wounds, all burning or aching or, at the very least, itching, and yet--

I'm alive.

Not drowned. Not torn in two. I'm alive.

Only then does he see the bonfire crackling beside him.

Only later, after Duck and Mytho (both alive, after all!), find him and help him to stand up, does Fakir learn what fueled it.