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Jan. 24th, 2012 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fairytaleknight[Late night, sometime after this.]
Karon's workbench is chilly at this hour of the night, but Fakir is good at ignoring cold.
"And then," Fakir is saying, "Mytho saved the kitten. Because it's what he does. That's when I knew. I think I was eight."
The wooden puppet on the table says nothing. She's much smaller than Edel was, and she holds a drum. Karon and Fakir have spent the last days reshaping her, attaching joints and painting limbs.
She isn't alive. She's just a puppet.
"I love him, all right?" Fakir says, defiantly, to the shell of the puppet. "I mean it. I love him. Like princes and princesses love each other in stories." Quieter, "I've never said this to anyone. No, of course I didn't tell him. What good would that have been?
"But Mytho chose Princess Tutu. And she deserves him. She's selfless and caring and -- she's only a duck, you know, a little yellow duck, and sometimes she's a girl who can hardly walk in a straight line, and sometimes she's Princess Tutu, the truest and wisest princess from the story. She was willing to turn into a speck of light to save him. And I let her have him.
"The part I don't understand," continues Fakir, patting the silent puppet on her little green head, "is that it doesn't hurt. I mean, I gave him up, forever. Why isn't my heart in a thousand shards? How can I look at him without pain? It doesn't make any sense.
I wish you could explain it to me. I wish we could talk. You're not Edel any more, are you? You're someone else.
I wonder what you'd say. I wonder what your story is."
Karon's workbench is chilly at this hour of the night, but Fakir is good at ignoring cold.
"And then," Fakir is saying, "Mytho saved the kitten. Because it's what he does. That's when I knew. I think I was eight."
The wooden puppet on the table says nothing. She's much smaller than Edel was, and she holds a drum. Karon and Fakir have spent the last days reshaping her, attaching joints and painting limbs.
She isn't alive. She's just a puppet.
"I love him, all right?" Fakir says, defiantly, to the shell of the puppet. "I mean it. I love him. Like princes and princesses love each other in stories." Quieter, "I've never said this to anyone. No, of course I didn't tell him. What good would that have been?
"But Mytho chose Princess Tutu. And she deserves him. She's selfless and caring and -- she's only a duck, you know, a little yellow duck, and sometimes she's a girl who can hardly walk in a straight line, and sometimes she's Princess Tutu, the truest and wisest princess from the story. She was willing to turn into a speck of light to save him. And I let her have him.
"The part I don't understand," continues Fakir, patting the silent puppet on her little green head, "is that it doesn't hurt. I mean, I gave him up, forever. Why isn't my heart in a thousand shards? How can I look at him without pain? It doesn't make any sense.
I wish you could explain it to me. I wish we could talk. You're not Edel any more, are you? You're someone else.
I wonder what you'd say. I wonder what your story is."
