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]

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.