"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?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-01-28 01:03 am (UTC)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?"