A Dream of Spring, chapter 3
Mar. 4th, 2011 08:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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Holy crap, remember this thing I started? I sure do.
Title: A Dream of Spring, Ch. 3
Rating: PG-13? I guess?
Characters: Fakir,Ahiru, Rue, Mytho, Autor
Summary: A lavish party is thrown to celebrate the arrival of summer and the Prince's guests of honor, and Autor makes another appearance.
Previous chapters: 2, 1, all on FFN
At the very core of his heart, Autor knew that he would always resent Fakir just the littlest bit. The passage of time had dulled the sense of betrayal he felt at watching Fakir be chosen over him as an inheritor of Drosselmeyer’s powers - dulled, but not eliminated - but there was a certain something about Fakir that Autor found intolerable. His constructed public image as a Byronic figure was all but transparent to Autor by now. It was little more than a thin veil over an untidy pile of insecurities and a lingering, childish sense of romantic idealism he insulated and protected under a flimsy veneer of cynicism. Those idealistic tendencies had only grown more frustrating in recent months, culminating in Fakir’s absurd decision to retire from his rightful position as the writer of the town’s story. He was untrustworthy, imprecise, and in Autor’s opinion altogether unsuited to the control of anything.
So, of course, he had read the letter that spontaneously appeared in Fakir’s room one early morning long before delivery of any student mail ever took place. He did not make a habit of reading Fakir’s correspondences, but he recognized Mytho’s handwriting in the addressed portion almost immediately. The dull-eyed boy’s neat if unusual handwriting stood out among the music theory essays he had spent afternoons stooped over as an assistant to the instructor. Just as immediately, he had decided to open the letter and confirm or disprove his assumption that nothing good could come of a letter from what was essentially an entirely different world. As was often the case, he had been quite correct.
Telling Fakir was out of the question. It had been easy to open and reseal the envelope, and by the time he’d tacked the little packet to Fakir’s door he scarcely cared whether Fakir believed he hadn’t read it. He could deal with Fakir’s childish anger later, when he finally deigned to arrive. Autor glanced at his watch for the fourth time in the past five minutes and wondered just how little Fakir cared to be punctual for something so dire. He’d arrived fifteen minutes early, and as the hands on his watch proceeded on to the midnight hour he began to doubt Fakir would show up at all.
Perhaps that was for the best. He could go alone; he would think of some way to get there once the coach arrived. If the coachman hadn’t been given a proper description of Fakir, perhaps he could impersonate him long enough to arrive at the coach’s destination. Whether that sort of deception were necessary or not, he would get there. Indeed, since he had discovered the letter his one most powerful desire had been to travel to Mytho’s kingdom. As much as he hated to admit similarity to Fakir, he understood that this was a purely base, romantic desire. If he did not believe Rue’s safety to be at stake, his interest would have been purely... academic. As it was, he was instead fidgeting at the foot of the clock tower, willing the hands of his watch to move.
What he expected to accomplish there that Fakir could not, he had no idea. Despite Autor’s dedication and careful planning, Fakir had been chosen as the vessel for Drosselmeyer’s powers. Why else would anyone want the fool’s help, especially in such a dire situation? His personality hardly lent itself to problem solving.
He pulled the jacket of his uniform closer about him as a sudden brisk gust of wind whistled around the clock tower and raked over him. As the gust whipped up the thin layer of dust over the cobbles down the street, a blazingly bright white light flashed around Autor, momentarily stealing his sight. He recoiled, threw his arm across his eyes, and squinted perplexedly out at the strange scene. It was as though God had trained an immense spotlight on the tower, far brighter than noontime in July and notably lacking sunlight’s characteristic warmth. He found himself shuddering as he tried to locate the source of the light.
His search was swiftly interrupted by the gentle call of a voice that enveloped and surrounded him just as the light did. Warm where the light was cold, inviting and tender.
“You should not despair.”
The scene that greeted Fakir and Ahiru as they stepped down from the ruined carriage and onto the sun-warmed stones that made up the tower’s uppermost floor was an incredible contrast to the frigid, sleet-choked air that had swirled around the dragon. The attention of every stranger present remained fixed on Fakir for several tense moments as he stood outside the wreck and allowed the sun to warm his soaked body, their gazes drifting periodically to the sword in his hand. There was such silence following his announcement that he had brought the sword as proof of his identity that he nearly lept out of his waterlogged boots when Ahiru shrieked.
“Rue!” she cried as she broke into a clumsy run, her ecstatic movements flinging droplets of chilly water into the air.
Fakir grimaced as he watched her pull a very startled Rue into a wet embrace, before a soft laugh at his side seized his attention. The Prince - or was he a king, now? - had moved to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder and eye to eye with Fakir now that his body had finally begun to grow again. His gaze wasn’t on Fakir, but on the girls, and for a brief moment Fakir found himself belatedly awe-struck by the life and warmth in Mytho’s face, at simply seeing his face again at all. When Mytho finally turned to him, still smiling, Fakir flinched. He felt as though he’d been caught at something.
“She has hardly changed, her body aside,” the Prince observed. Realization flashed across his features, his eyes widening before he gave a shallow but gracious bow. “Welcome. We are honored and grateful that you have come to us in our time of need. The both of you.”
The gathered soldiers followed their Prince’s example and Fakir, not wanting to look foolish or arrogant, bowed just a bit deeper. “I- We wouldn’t have considered doing otherwise, Prince.”
“What a marvel. He’s learned to speak with some consideration.” Rue, the front of her long blue gown thoroughly dampened by Ahiru’s thoughtless affections, strode over with the smaller girl in tow. A smile played on her lips despite the remark, and her tone was light and warm. Ahiru fixed Fakir with an expectant, subtly pleading look as she stood at Rue's side. He imagined she hoped he wouldn't use Rue's remark as an excuse to start an argument. Luckily, Rue was the last thing on his mind.
“I know how, I just don't always choose to,” he replied. He did not spare a bow for Rue, and as he expected she didn't bother to offer any other greeting.
The Prince, seemingly not bothered by the tense moment, crossed between Fakir and Rue to take Ahiru's hand, bow as he had to Fakir, and kiss it. “Welcome, Princess.”
A strangled, nasal laugh escaped Ahiru's mouth as she brought her free hand up to cover her beet red face. “Thank you! I mean. I'm not really a Princess anymore or anything, I'm just...” She trailed off thoughtfully as Fakir and the others looked on in amusement, then let her hand fall to her side and smiled. “Just a girl, now,” she finished softly.
The Prince returned the smile and nodded. “Yes. But you are no less welcome here, and we will always be grateful to you.”
“You don't- I mean-” Ahiru sputtered pointlessly for a few seconds, and Fakir could almost feel himself sinking into the flagstones in vicarious embarrassment. Then he saw her eyes widen as she peered over the Prince's shoulder. “What... what is that?” The humor and playfulness had drained from her voice.
Fakir followed her pointed finger, looking out beyond the castle's tower for the first time since they had crashed onto it. Beyond the tower lay the courtyards and the castle's outer curtain, and beyond that a small city of shingled roofs sprawling out from the base of the hill, and even further out, beyond the city's wall, distant patches of brown beside thatched cottages where farmers prepared their fields. Fakir's breath left him when he realized that the entire scene disappeared into white shrouded in twilight darkness. It was as if the world itself were divided between day and night, summer and midwinter, along a stark and crisp border that surrounded the city and outlying fields. Fakir found himself repeating Ahiru's question.
“A barrier against our encroaching enemy,” the Prince intoned as he turned to regard the border. It gave Fakir a slight dissonant chill to hear Mytho's voice speak with such dour certainty. The Prince's mouth had set itself into a hard, thin line. Rue moved to stand beside him, putting a hand on his arm. “Castle Edelstein and the surrounding city is one of the last homes of summertime in all of Feeland.”
For Fakir, this answer only raised more questions, like just what he was expected to do to remedy whatever had plunged the majority of the Story's world into eternal winter. They could ask him to write, he supposed, but that would not have required him to leave home. He cast a questioning glance at the Prince, not yet willing to speak up and make himself appear ignorant or insolent. Rue noticed him looking over before Mytho did, and raised an eyebrow at him. He frowned, and she pointedly looked away.
“I'm sorry,” Mytho said, his expression softening. “You've traveled a long way and barely arrived in one piece. I shouldn't burden you with that attitude when so much can be explained once you've rested.”
A small smile on his lips, Mytho turned to descend the stone stairs that wound around the tower. Fakir saw Rue scowl as his arm slipped from her light grasp. He and Ahiru followed the couple closely, Ahiru preceded and followed by a pair of soldiers Fakir assumed had decided that she needed an escort down the long, winding set of stairs. Small metal rings bolted to the wall at regular intervals made up for the absence of a hand rail. Almost. As they approached the courtyard below, Fakir became increasingly aware of the sounds of chatter and music wafting up the stairs. He hazarded a glance over the edge of the stairs and saw, to his surprise, that people had begun to file in through the castle's main gate by the dozens. Every last person fit enough to do so carried at least a basket or a box, while some pulled small carts laden with barrels and sacks. He looked around at the bustling, ever-growing crowd as they were led across the courtyard.
“Is it a market day?” he heard Ahiru ask behind him, hopefully.
“A celebration, actually,” Rue replied from her place at Mytho's side. “It is the first of May here, regardless of our current troubles, and a party at the castle is customary even if it's a humble one.”
“This is your idea of humble?” Fakir asked, mostly under his breath, as he continued to take a mental inventory of the sacks, baskets, and barrels. Ahiru elbowed him sharply but discretely.
Two of the soldiers rushed ahead of them as they neared the opposite side of the courtyard, holding open the doors to the keep. The air inside was cool, dry, and earthy. It smelled a bit like an old home that had only recently been lived in again. He shivered a bit, now out of the warm sun and still in his damp clothes. Ahiru didn't appear as bothered.
Mytho paused and turned to them, that same warm smile on his face. “I'm sure you would like to rest and change your clothes,” he said. “I can't imagine you slept well during your journey, and there's a busy evening ahead. The princess and I have preparations to attend to, so please allow our escorts to show you to your temporary quarters.”
“Thank you,” Fakir said with a small nod. Ahiru's voice joined his, just as stilted and awkward. He wondered if the Prince made a special effort to speak in such a way.
It was at that point that he and Ahiru parted ways, each led up to the second floor of the keep, then down separate passages to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Fakir's room was located at the very end of the corridor. The guard produced a great ring of keys from a pouch on his belt and unlocked the great wooden door, holding it open for Fakir. Not even looking into the room, Fakir held out his hand to the guard.
“I would like the key to my room,” he said, fatigue wearing his nerves thin as the opportunity to sleep grew nearer. The guard pulled the key free from the locked, speedily removed it from the ring, and set it in Fakir's hand without speaking a word. Fakir scowled. “You are allowed to talk, you know.”
The guard started and bowed his head deeply. “I apologize, sir, I didn't want to speak out of turn.”
Fakir cocked an eyebrow at the man's reaction, incredulous. Though he was hardly a little boy anymore (and would defend that fact) the only people who called him 'sir' were either making fun of him or selling him something. To make matters even stranger, the man was obviously several years his senior. He decided that he was in no mood to argue.
“Leave me in peace,” he said. The man looked almost relieved as Fakir shut the door in his face.
Fakir took one glance at the lushly dressed bed and suddenly recalled his restless night in the carriage. A fresh set of clothes sat neatly folded in a chair beside the bed, but he barely noticed them. He stripped to his shorts and undershirt, tossed the key onto the chair, and slipped under the heavy quilt that topped the bed. He drifted to sleep almost immediately despite the sunlight streaming through the window.
The clothes that had been left out for him turned out to be much more than a replacement for the simple and functional clothes he had chosen for the trip. He stood before the tall mirror in his room, having spent the past half hour since being roused from his sleep by that timid trying to dress himself properly. He had been offered assistance, but had refused it. He knew perfectly well how to dress himself.
No, he didn't need any help; he had dressed himself in more complicated costumes for performances many times. The only problem was the nagging feeling that no matter how he arranged himself, he looked comically out of place in the clothes that had been selected for him. The deep blue surcoat embroidered with leafy patterns in silver passing at the hems looked strange enough on him, but the brilliantly red cape added a whole new layer of inappropriateness. He turned to one side and frowned again. It was too bright, too eye-catching, too...
It looked like a hero's costume. That had been his first thought upon seeing himself in the mirror. He so seldom danced or played the part of a hero, and even in daily life gravitated toward muted tones with the exception of his favorite blue shirt and that absurd waistcoat.
He sighed to himself in annoyance just as the door opened behind him, and whirled around, trying to not look too startled. The door closed, and Mytho stood before it looking every bit the part of a fairy tale prince. The golden circlet resting lightly on his head topped off an ensemble of white and pale blue. Fakir thought he looked almost otherworldly, with his snow white hair that matched his hose and sleeves. He practically glowed against the age-darkened wood of the door.
“The other guests are growing restless, you know,” the Prince pointed out, effectively jarring Fakir from his mental wandering. He smiled teasingly. “No one wants to begin without our guests of honor, but everyone is hungry.”
Fakir scoffed and turned back to the mirror, his eyes off the glass as he looked down to more speedily undo the brooch holding his cape in place. “Tell them to wait a bit longer,” he said, fumbling with the clasp. “I'm going to change into my own clothes.”
“These are yours, though.”
Fakir's eyes widened, his hands freezing in place as Mytho reached around his shoulders to still them. After a moment of held breath he let his hands fall away, allowing Mytho to straighten the brooch and re-pin his cape.
“They don't suit me,” Fakir said, stepping away once Mytho had smoothed the cape over his shoulders. Somehow, he was hardly surprised that the Prince had yet to puzzle out the tacit concept of personal space. To his surprise, the other boy stifled a small laugh. He cast a withering look at the Prince, no longer so concerned with insolence or due respect.
“Ahiru said the same thing,” Mytho said, clearly not fazed by Fakir's glowering. The smile remained, genuine and playful, and Fakir felt his annoyance at being laughed at fade. After so many years with no heart, Mytho deserved to laugh even if it was at his expense.
Without another word said between them, Fakir allowed the Prince to lead him to the castle's great hall, where their arrival was heralded from the minstrel's gallery over the huge arched doors and greeted with raucous applause from the scores upon scores of guests packed into the enormous room. At the very end of the hall, Ahiru sat beside Rue at the center of a long table raised up on the dais. Looking every bit as nervous as Fakir felt. Neither of them had attended such a lavish party before, and being the center of attention did nothing to calm Fakir's nerves as he was led to the table's center and seated beside the Prince, who in turn sat beside his princess.
No grand speech preceded the feast; it simply began in earnest the moment the Prince and his guests of honor had seated themselves. Fakir had no sooner settled into his chair than a platter of sliced roasted beef passed directly under his nose, carried by a servant and already somewhat picked over by the other guests. He let it pass by out of sheer surprise, and not a moment later found his stomach snarling in want of it. He had, after all, not had a bite to eat since supper the night before. The next platter didn't escape him so easily, and he speared a generous serving of roasted chicken for himself with the little knife beside his plate. Mytho picked a wing from the edge of the platter with his fingers and ate it immediately and with great relish. It brought a faint smile to Fakir's face to see him enjoy his food, when not long ago he could have been fed entirely on boiled cabbage and saltwater and voiced no complaint.
The chatter around them grew louder and more boisterous as the evening wore on, and in time even Fakir began to relax. He suspected the party's increasingly informal tone was due largely to the deep red wine poured liberally from pitchers at every table. He had watched Mytho steadily drain two glasses of the stuff with his meal, while Rue still nursed the first and Ahiru, sipping water with her fish, hadn't been offered any at all. Fakir had accepted a single serving of the stuff out of courtesy, and finally reached for it when he unexpectedly bit into an impressively undercooked clove of garlic hidden in his food. He downed the entire cup without so much as a thought, eager to just get the bitter burn off his tongue, and soon felt a different sort of burn as heat crept onto his cheeks. He very seldom drank, even on holidays, and even then he just sipped on beer.
“You'll be embarrassingly drunk in no time if you keep treating it like it's water,” Rue said, not even looking over at him as she daintily cut a spear of white asparagus into bite-sized pieces. Fakir scoffed.
After the first cup, Fakir took the wine more slowly. It was good, a quality he had always been somewhat reluctant to grant alcohol. He had always found beer and what little wine he had tasted up to that point to be unpleasantly bitter, and even in his worst moods he never felt the need to drink it for anything but its taste. This was different, heavy and sweet. Soon words flowed freely from his mouth and he smiled with surprising ease. It made up for the mild nausea quite nicely.
In the midst of a rambling story about a performance gone wrong, Fakir's expressive hands managed to swat Mytho's cup over, sending wine flooding over the table. He got up hurriedly, his face flaming as he leaned over Mytho's plate to mop up the spill before it went cascading over the table's edge.
The next moment passed as if time had slowed to a crawl. A single shriek rang out at the far end of the hall, rising to a crescendo as others joined it. Fakir looked up just in time to see a cloaked figure standing in the minstrel's gallery. A hand grabbed his cape from behind and pain flared in his chest, stealing his breath away. His next breath came as a whistling wheeze. The only indication of the cause of his agony was a tuft of white standing out against the blue of his coat. He fainted just as he recognized the fletching, vaguely aware of continued screams and hands pawing at him as he crumpled to the floor.
Title: A Dream of Spring, Ch. 3
Rating: PG-13? I guess?
Characters: Fakir,Ahiru, Rue, Mytho, Autor
Summary: A lavish party is thrown to celebrate the arrival of summer and the Prince's guests of honor, and Autor makes another appearance.
Previous chapters: 2, 1, all on FFN
At the very core of his heart, Autor knew that he would always resent Fakir just the littlest bit. The passage of time had dulled the sense of betrayal he felt at watching Fakir be chosen over him as an inheritor of Drosselmeyer’s powers - dulled, but not eliminated - but there was a certain something about Fakir that Autor found intolerable. His constructed public image as a Byronic figure was all but transparent to Autor by now. It was little more than a thin veil over an untidy pile of insecurities and a lingering, childish sense of romantic idealism he insulated and protected under a flimsy veneer of cynicism. Those idealistic tendencies had only grown more frustrating in recent months, culminating in Fakir’s absurd decision to retire from his rightful position as the writer of the town’s story. He was untrustworthy, imprecise, and in Autor’s opinion altogether unsuited to the control of anything.
So, of course, he had read the letter that spontaneously appeared in Fakir’s room one early morning long before delivery of any student mail ever took place. He did not make a habit of reading Fakir’s correspondences, but he recognized Mytho’s handwriting in the addressed portion almost immediately. The dull-eyed boy’s neat if unusual handwriting stood out among the music theory essays he had spent afternoons stooped over as an assistant to the instructor. Just as immediately, he had decided to open the letter and confirm or disprove his assumption that nothing good could come of a letter from what was essentially an entirely different world. As was often the case, he had been quite correct.
Telling Fakir was out of the question. It had been easy to open and reseal the envelope, and by the time he’d tacked the little packet to Fakir’s door he scarcely cared whether Fakir believed he hadn’t read it. He could deal with Fakir’s childish anger later, when he finally deigned to arrive. Autor glanced at his watch for the fourth time in the past five minutes and wondered just how little Fakir cared to be punctual for something so dire. He’d arrived fifteen minutes early, and as the hands on his watch proceeded on to the midnight hour he began to doubt Fakir would show up at all.
Perhaps that was for the best. He could go alone; he would think of some way to get there once the coach arrived. If the coachman hadn’t been given a proper description of Fakir, perhaps he could impersonate him long enough to arrive at the coach’s destination. Whether that sort of deception were necessary or not, he would get there. Indeed, since he had discovered the letter his one most powerful desire had been to travel to Mytho’s kingdom. As much as he hated to admit similarity to Fakir, he understood that this was a purely base, romantic desire. If he did not believe Rue’s safety to be at stake, his interest would have been purely... academic. As it was, he was instead fidgeting at the foot of the clock tower, willing the hands of his watch to move.
What he expected to accomplish there that Fakir could not, he had no idea. Despite Autor’s dedication and careful planning, Fakir had been chosen as the vessel for Drosselmeyer’s powers. Why else would anyone want the fool’s help, especially in such a dire situation? His personality hardly lent itself to problem solving.
He pulled the jacket of his uniform closer about him as a sudden brisk gust of wind whistled around the clock tower and raked over him. As the gust whipped up the thin layer of dust over the cobbles down the street, a blazingly bright white light flashed around Autor, momentarily stealing his sight. He recoiled, threw his arm across his eyes, and squinted perplexedly out at the strange scene. It was as though God had trained an immense spotlight on the tower, far brighter than noontime in July and notably lacking sunlight’s characteristic warmth. He found himself shuddering as he tried to locate the source of the light.
His search was swiftly interrupted by the gentle call of a voice that enveloped and surrounded him just as the light did. Warm where the light was cold, inviting and tender.
“You should not despair.”
The scene that greeted Fakir and Ahiru as they stepped down from the ruined carriage and onto the sun-warmed stones that made up the tower’s uppermost floor was an incredible contrast to the frigid, sleet-choked air that had swirled around the dragon. The attention of every stranger present remained fixed on Fakir for several tense moments as he stood outside the wreck and allowed the sun to warm his soaked body, their gazes drifting periodically to the sword in his hand. There was such silence following his announcement that he had brought the sword as proof of his identity that he nearly lept out of his waterlogged boots when Ahiru shrieked.
“Rue!” she cried as she broke into a clumsy run, her ecstatic movements flinging droplets of chilly water into the air.
Fakir grimaced as he watched her pull a very startled Rue into a wet embrace, before a soft laugh at his side seized his attention. The Prince - or was he a king, now? - had moved to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder and eye to eye with Fakir now that his body had finally begun to grow again. His gaze wasn’t on Fakir, but on the girls, and for a brief moment Fakir found himself belatedly awe-struck by the life and warmth in Mytho’s face, at simply seeing his face again at all. When Mytho finally turned to him, still smiling, Fakir flinched. He felt as though he’d been caught at something.
“She has hardly changed, her body aside,” the Prince observed. Realization flashed across his features, his eyes widening before he gave a shallow but gracious bow. “Welcome. We are honored and grateful that you have come to us in our time of need. The both of you.”
The gathered soldiers followed their Prince’s example and Fakir, not wanting to look foolish or arrogant, bowed just a bit deeper. “I- We wouldn’t have considered doing otherwise, Prince.”
“What a marvel. He’s learned to speak with some consideration.” Rue, the front of her long blue gown thoroughly dampened by Ahiru’s thoughtless affections, strode over with the smaller girl in tow. A smile played on her lips despite the remark, and her tone was light and warm. Ahiru fixed Fakir with an expectant, subtly pleading look as she stood at Rue's side. He imagined she hoped he wouldn't use Rue's remark as an excuse to start an argument. Luckily, Rue was the last thing on his mind.
“I know how, I just don't always choose to,” he replied. He did not spare a bow for Rue, and as he expected she didn't bother to offer any other greeting.
The Prince, seemingly not bothered by the tense moment, crossed between Fakir and Rue to take Ahiru's hand, bow as he had to Fakir, and kiss it. “Welcome, Princess.”
A strangled, nasal laugh escaped Ahiru's mouth as she brought her free hand up to cover her beet red face. “Thank you! I mean. I'm not really a Princess anymore or anything, I'm just...” She trailed off thoughtfully as Fakir and the others looked on in amusement, then let her hand fall to her side and smiled. “Just a girl, now,” she finished softly.
The Prince returned the smile and nodded. “Yes. But you are no less welcome here, and we will always be grateful to you.”
“You don't- I mean-” Ahiru sputtered pointlessly for a few seconds, and Fakir could almost feel himself sinking into the flagstones in vicarious embarrassment. Then he saw her eyes widen as she peered over the Prince's shoulder. “What... what is that?” The humor and playfulness had drained from her voice.
Fakir followed her pointed finger, looking out beyond the castle's tower for the first time since they had crashed onto it. Beyond the tower lay the courtyards and the castle's outer curtain, and beyond that a small city of shingled roofs sprawling out from the base of the hill, and even further out, beyond the city's wall, distant patches of brown beside thatched cottages where farmers prepared their fields. Fakir's breath left him when he realized that the entire scene disappeared into white shrouded in twilight darkness. It was as if the world itself were divided between day and night, summer and midwinter, along a stark and crisp border that surrounded the city and outlying fields. Fakir found himself repeating Ahiru's question.
“A barrier against our encroaching enemy,” the Prince intoned as he turned to regard the border. It gave Fakir a slight dissonant chill to hear Mytho's voice speak with such dour certainty. The Prince's mouth had set itself into a hard, thin line. Rue moved to stand beside him, putting a hand on his arm. “Castle Edelstein and the surrounding city is one of the last homes of summertime in all of Feeland.”
For Fakir, this answer only raised more questions, like just what he was expected to do to remedy whatever had plunged the majority of the Story's world into eternal winter. They could ask him to write, he supposed, but that would not have required him to leave home. He cast a questioning glance at the Prince, not yet willing to speak up and make himself appear ignorant or insolent. Rue noticed him looking over before Mytho did, and raised an eyebrow at him. He frowned, and she pointedly looked away.
“I'm sorry,” Mytho said, his expression softening. “You've traveled a long way and barely arrived in one piece. I shouldn't burden you with that attitude when so much can be explained once you've rested.”
A small smile on his lips, Mytho turned to descend the stone stairs that wound around the tower. Fakir saw Rue scowl as his arm slipped from her light grasp. He and Ahiru followed the couple closely, Ahiru preceded and followed by a pair of soldiers Fakir assumed had decided that she needed an escort down the long, winding set of stairs. Small metal rings bolted to the wall at regular intervals made up for the absence of a hand rail. Almost. As they approached the courtyard below, Fakir became increasingly aware of the sounds of chatter and music wafting up the stairs. He hazarded a glance over the edge of the stairs and saw, to his surprise, that people had begun to file in through the castle's main gate by the dozens. Every last person fit enough to do so carried at least a basket or a box, while some pulled small carts laden with barrels and sacks. He looked around at the bustling, ever-growing crowd as they were led across the courtyard.
“Is it a market day?” he heard Ahiru ask behind him, hopefully.
“A celebration, actually,” Rue replied from her place at Mytho's side. “It is the first of May here, regardless of our current troubles, and a party at the castle is customary even if it's a humble one.”
“This is your idea of humble?” Fakir asked, mostly under his breath, as he continued to take a mental inventory of the sacks, baskets, and barrels. Ahiru elbowed him sharply but discretely.
Two of the soldiers rushed ahead of them as they neared the opposite side of the courtyard, holding open the doors to the keep. The air inside was cool, dry, and earthy. It smelled a bit like an old home that had only recently been lived in again. He shivered a bit, now out of the warm sun and still in his damp clothes. Ahiru didn't appear as bothered.
Mytho paused and turned to them, that same warm smile on his face. “I'm sure you would like to rest and change your clothes,” he said. “I can't imagine you slept well during your journey, and there's a busy evening ahead. The princess and I have preparations to attend to, so please allow our escorts to show you to your temporary quarters.”
“Thank you,” Fakir said with a small nod. Ahiru's voice joined his, just as stilted and awkward. He wondered if the Prince made a special effort to speak in such a way.
It was at that point that he and Ahiru parted ways, each led up to the second floor of the keep, then down separate passages to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Fakir's room was located at the very end of the corridor. The guard produced a great ring of keys from a pouch on his belt and unlocked the great wooden door, holding it open for Fakir. Not even looking into the room, Fakir held out his hand to the guard.
“I would like the key to my room,” he said, fatigue wearing his nerves thin as the opportunity to sleep grew nearer. The guard pulled the key free from the locked, speedily removed it from the ring, and set it in Fakir's hand without speaking a word. Fakir scowled. “You are allowed to talk, you know.”
The guard started and bowed his head deeply. “I apologize, sir, I didn't want to speak out of turn.”
Fakir cocked an eyebrow at the man's reaction, incredulous. Though he was hardly a little boy anymore (and would defend that fact) the only people who called him 'sir' were either making fun of him or selling him something. To make matters even stranger, the man was obviously several years his senior. He decided that he was in no mood to argue.
“Leave me in peace,” he said. The man looked almost relieved as Fakir shut the door in his face.
Fakir took one glance at the lushly dressed bed and suddenly recalled his restless night in the carriage. A fresh set of clothes sat neatly folded in a chair beside the bed, but he barely noticed them. He stripped to his shorts and undershirt, tossed the key onto the chair, and slipped under the heavy quilt that topped the bed. He drifted to sleep almost immediately despite the sunlight streaming through the window.
The clothes that had been left out for him turned out to be much more than a replacement for the simple and functional clothes he had chosen for the trip. He stood before the tall mirror in his room, having spent the past half hour since being roused from his sleep by that timid trying to dress himself properly. He had been offered assistance, but had refused it. He knew perfectly well how to dress himself.
No, he didn't need any help; he had dressed himself in more complicated costumes for performances many times. The only problem was the nagging feeling that no matter how he arranged himself, he looked comically out of place in the clothes that had been selected for him. The deep blue surcoat embroidered with leafy patterns in silver passing at the hems looked strange enough on him, but the brilliantly red cape added a whole new layer of inappropriateness. He turned to one side and frowned again. It was too bright, too eye-catching, too...
It looked like a hero's costume. That had been his first thought upon seeing himself in the mirror. He so seldom danced or played the part of a hero, and even in daily life gravitated toward muted tones with the exception of his favorite blue shirt and that absurd waistcoat.
He sighed to himself in annoyance just as the door opened behind him, and whirled around, trying to not look too startled. The door closed, and Mytho stood before it looking every bit the part of a fairy tale prince. The golden circlet resting lightly on his head topped off an ensemble of white and pale blue. Fakir thought he looked almost otherworldly, with his snow white hair that matched his hose and sleeves. He practically glowed against the age-darkened wood of the door.
“The other guests are growing restless, you know,” the Prince pointed out, effectively jarring Fakir from his mental wandering. He smiled teasingly. “No one wants to begin without our guests of honor, but everyone is hungry.”
Fakir scoffed and turned back to the mirror, his eyes off the glass as he looked down to more speedily undo the brooch holding his cape in place. “Tell them to wait a bit longer,” he said, fumbling with the clasp. “I'm going to change into my own clothes.”
“These are yours, though.”
Fakir's eyes widened, his hands freezing in place as Mytho reached around his shoulders to still them. After a moment of held breath he let his hands fall away, allowing Mytho to straighten the brooch and re-pin his cape.
“They don't suit me,” Fakir said, stepping away once Mytho had smoothed the cape over his shoulders. Somehow, he was hardly surprised that the Prince had yet to puzzle out the tacit concept of personal space. To his surprise, the other boy stifled a small laugh. He cast a withering look at the Prince, no longer so concerned with insolence or due respect.
“Ahiru said the same thing,” Mytho said, clearly not fazed by Fakir's glowering. The smile remained, genuine and playful, and Fakir felt his annoyance at being laughed at fade. After so many years with no heart, Mytho deserved to laugh even if it was at his expense.
Without another word said between them, Fakir allowed the Prince to lead him to the castle's great hall, where their arrival was heralded from the minstrel's gallery over the huge arched doors and greeted with raucous applause from the scores upon scores of guests packed into the enormous room. At the very end of the hall, Ahiru sat beside Rue at the center of a long table raised up on the dais. Looking every bit as nervous as Fakir felt. Neither of them had attended such a lavish party before, and being the center of attention did nothing to calm Fakir's nerves as he was led to the table's center and seated beside the Prince, who in turn sat beside his princess.
No grand speech preceded the feast; it simply began in earnest the moment the Prince and his guests of honor had seated themselves. Fakir had no sooner settled into his chair than a platter of sliced roasted beef passed directly under his nose, carried by a servant and already somewhat picked over by the other guests. He let it pass by out of sheer surprise, and not a moment later found his stomach snarling in want of it. He had, after all, not had a bite to eat since supper the night before. The next platter didn't escape him so easily, and he speared a generous serving of roasted chicken for himself with the little knife beside his plate. Mytho picked a wing from the edge of the platter with his fingers and ate it immediately and with great relish. It brought a faint smile to Fakir's face to see him enjoy his food, when not long ago he could have been fed entirely on boiled cabbage and saltwater and voiced no complaint.
The chatter around them grew louder and more boisterous as the evening wore on, and in time even Fakir began to relax. He suspected the party's increasingly informal tone was due largely to the deep red wine poured liberally from pitchers at every table. He had watched Mytho steadily drain two glasses of the stuff with his meal, while Rue still nursed the first and Ahiru, sipping water with her fish, hadn't been offered any at all. Fakir had accepted a single serving of the stuff out of courtesy, and finally reached for it when he unexpectedly bit into an impressively undercooked clove of garlic hidden in his food. He downed the entire cup without so much as a thought, eager to just get the bitter burn off his tongue, and soon felt a different sort of burn as heat crept onto his cheeks. He very seldom drank, even on holidays, and even then he just sipped on beer.
“You'll be embarrassingly drunk in no time if you keep treating it like it's water,” Rue said, not even looking over at him as she daintily cut a spear of white asparagus into bite-sized pieces. Fakir scoffed.
After the first cup, Fakir took the wine more slowly. It was good, a quality he had always been somewhat reluctant to grant alcohol. He had always found beer and what little wine he had tasted up to that point to be unpleasantly bitter, and even in his worst moods he never felt the need to drink it for anything but its taste. This was different, heavy and sweet. Soon words flowed freely from his mouth and he smiled with surprising ease. It made up for the mild nausea quite nicely.
In the midst of a rambling story about a performance gone wrong, Fakir's expressive hands managed to swat Mytho's cup over, sending wine flooding over the table. He got up hurriedly, his face flaming as he leaned over Mytho's plate to mop up the spill before it went cascading over the table's edge.
The next moment passed as if time had slowed to a crawl. A single shriek rang out at the far end of the hall, rising to a crescendo as others joined it. Fakir looked up just in time to see a cloaked figure standing in the minstrel's gallery. A hand grabbed his cape from behind and pain flared in his chest, stealing his breath away. His next breath came as a whistling wheeze. The only indication of the cause of his agony was a tuft of white standing out against the blue of his coat. He fainted just as he recognized the fletching, vaguely aware of continued screams and hands pawing at him as he crumpled to the floor.