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tutufansI've been rather busy with reality for the past few months, but the biggest stumbling block in getting this chapter finished was its spontaneous destruction. My laptop fried itself, Dropbox didn't sync in time, and I lost over 2,000 words of the story. I was only recently able to come back to an empty document and re-create what i'd tried to finish all the way back in April. I promise you won't wait this long again.
I had planned to post this with some extra materials, namely an e-book format copy of the first six chapters, and an FST, but with a hurricane staring me right in the junk I'm afraid that tonight might be my last chance to post it at all this week. So, here you go.
Title: A Dream of Spring, Ch. 6
Rating: PG-13, mostly for content later on in the fic
Characters: Fakir,Ahiru, Rue, Mytho, Autor
Story Summary: Fakir has stopped writing. Strange disappearances and troubling dreams precede the arrival of a letter from Siegfried calling him to the story world's aid. He must take up the role of the Knight once more, but he will not go alone.
Chapter Summary: The day before departure, tensions and anxieties are high, and hearts uneasy.
You can read previous installments at Fanfiction.net.
The scene played out in ugly silence. Mist settled heavy and thick on the lake's surface, barely disturbed as Siegfried, suspended by enchanted boots, strode out onto the water. He looked past a familiar from obscured by the mist to scan the sky, searching for two points of red light. Suddenly a powerful gust of wind - and another, and another, the beats of enormous wings - whisked the mist away. Waves lapped at his feet, and though no sound heralded the Raven's arrival he could feel the force of a hundred ancient trees snapping and splintering and shattering under its weight. It rattled in his chest like the shock that follows a thunderclap.
They exchanged words. Threats, taunts, feeble attempts at bargaining, all voiceless. He knew the words well enough that it hardly mattered, and for the briefest of moments he knew that he was trapped. As if responding to his distress, time slipped aside. Words ceased, water droplets scattered, and the Raven came at him in a lurch, its eyes blazing with hate and hunger. His sword flashed, the blade catching brilliant red and pale moonlight. Blows fell in a blur of motion, the long battle glossed over and sped along in a flurry of fleeting moments.
Time slowed with cruel precision on the crucial blow. A flash of motion, a voiceless shout, a shower of blood in droplets that disappeared under the surface of the water and left an ugly red cloud that spread and spread from the crumpled pile of torn rent flesh and metal resting on the water's surface, suspended just as Siegfried was. He did not cross the lake to the torn body of his companion, only found himself suddenly on his knees with blood on his hands. On his arms. Seeping through the tabard over his chest. Everywhere, more blood than he could imagine. So much blood that he hardly noticed the scarlet droplets pouring down from the gathered clouds, matting his hair and stirring ripples on the lake.
No sound escaped his throat even as he felt his mouth open to form words.
'You'll be-'
'Please...'
'I'm here. Forgive me.'
With that, the gruesome scene faded, utterly forgotten as sound flooded back into his world. A voice, stern yet warm, spoke directly into his ear.
"You really don't understand what's good for you."
The world flipped onto its side, taking him along with it and depositing him in his bed. His pounding heart slowed, and he felt at ease.
"Are you even listening to me?"
His eyes snapped open to the sight of the familiar white ceiling of his dorm room. It slowly drifted lower, drawing nearer to him only to snap back to a dizzying height when the voice called to him again.
"Always a disappointment."
He was standing. The floor was cold, the room empty. He glanced around himself like a lost child. "Who's there?" he called.
The floor fell away a tile at a time. The walls fell away into empty white space. And he finally started awake.
Sound, true sound, reached Mytho's ears at last as he lay on his side in bed, fingers dug deep into his pillow. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, a slight smile coming to his face as the dream rapidly faded, replaced by the toast-warm comfort of his bed and the twittering sound of birdsong outside his window. A thin ribbon of sunlight filtered through the gap in the drapes around his bed, which he lazily pushed aside as he sat up. He pulled his nightgown over his head and let it fall to the floor, eager to start dressing. He'd realized early on after regaining his ability to enjoy things that he would linger in a comfortable bed until just before lunch if he didn't rise as soon as he was able.
He dressed quickly, pausing between slipping his hose on and struggling into his shirt to turn a slow pirouette on the smooth stone floor. Dancing, after ten whole years with little else that made him feel any closer to his true self, remained something familiar and comfortable, a part of him that had endured throughout his life. When he shattered his heart, he staggered in Rue and Fakir's story knowing very little. Still, he knew compassion, and he knew that dancing touched something inside his gutted chest and made him feel more complete.
The heavy door to his chambers opened, and he turned just in time to see a thin white arm deposit a little covered platter on the table beside the door.
"Thank you, Marta," he called as he crossed the room with quick, light steps. His breakfast, as usual, was a small roll smeared with jam eaten only as quickly as he found his boots. Since he was inclined to walk around his rooms a bit before pulling them off every night, this sometimes made for a lengthy breakfast.
Boots found and breakfast eaten, he left his room only a quarter hour after waking. Marta ducked in to tidy up the moment he stepped out, just as she had every morning since he returned. A group of guards nodded their heads to him in unison as he passed them in the corridor and he returned the gesture languidly. Only when he stepped out onto the open walkway over the castle's eastern garden did he begin to feel properly awake. Warm air carrying the sweetness of nearby orchards that the icy plague had yet spared flowed into his chest and washed his heart and mind clean, sweeping out fatigue and lingering dreams.
A great desire struck him at that moment, a desire to move and to dance, a desire for action brought about by the sweet scent on the wind that reminded him immediately of what his people stood to lose. He doubled back to his room, passing the same group of guards on his way, and retrieved his battered waster from his wardrobe. Even without a partner swordplay was enough like dancing to satisfy him, and it was certain to satisfy his need for aggressive catharsis.
He descended into the eastern garden, his heart coming alive and thrumming against the walls of his chest as he bounded down the steps. He had forgotten his love of swordplay without his heart, and every opportunity to make up for lost time sent a giddy thrill through him no matter the circumstances. It may be small, but he always felt something powerful and affirming when he held a sword in his hand. He felt more like himself, just as he did when he danced.
The eastern garden, with its wide court of smooth stones and seclusion from the rest of the castle, made an excellent stage for his morning exercises when the weather permitted it. He almost preferred to practice alone, stepping through planned and choreographed patterns and dueling unseen opponents without fear of interruption.
He stripped off his shirt and left it neatly folded on a stone bench at the edge of the court, sighing in contentment at the sensation of late morning sunlight falling on his bare back and shoulders. He would miss that feeling after today, when even the brightest day beyond Edelstein's borders offered only blinding whiteness and no warmth to speak of. He trembled just to think of it, and quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the court with sword in hand to exorcise his anxieties and clear his mind.
For the first few minutes of his practice, before he slipped into thoughtless and automatic motion, he found himself naming off positions as he moved. Fourth, fifth, always aware of his feet. This awareness faded into the back of his mind as he carried on, hour after hour, though it always remained. To fight, in his mind, would always be to dance. After so many years spent with nothing but dance to fill his heart, he likened many things to it. Fighting, love, riding, even conversation seemed like a dance to him.
Late morning faded away into early afternoon, the dew steamed away by the sun that crept higher and higher in the sky and the twittering of waking birds gradually quieting.
Today was their final day of rest before their journey was to begin, and neither he nor Fakir were to be disturbed except in the event of a grave emergency. Mytho could afford to play out his battles with imagined assailants hiding amongst the rose bushes and behind the trees, to pour his anxiety out with swipes of his sword and grand leaps across the court.
He cut a wide arc out of the air, his lips pressed in a thin line of intense concentration he intended to keep despite the constant needling of his misgivings. Even his princess wouldn't disturb him, he was certain. She'd grown cagey over the past few weeks, keeping to herself and brushing him off when he expressed concern over the change in her demeanor. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd returned to his chambers to find her sitting placidly on the bench beside his window, waiting to welcome him.
She was worried for him, he knew that much. She had said as much, but it was what went unsaid that concerned him most, largely because he found it so difficult to determine just what certain disapproving glances meant. Or what silence meant at certain times. He could only discern a formless, nameless displeasure she refused to explain.
The phantoms behind the trees evaporated into the hazy afternoon air as his anxieties poured out with his energy and sweat, his mind slowly slipping into a state of fatigued contentment. He let his body fall into a restful position, arms hanging at his sides as the same sweet breeze that had awakened him rushed over his heated skin and tousled his hair. A small smile came to his face as the last of his concerns drained away.
"You always work until you're too tired to," a voice commented behind him. He flinched and whirled around to find Fakir sitting on the bench he'd left his shirt on, a little clay jug resting beside him. His mouth was turned up in the slightest of smiles, his tone warm and fond. "You don't pay any attention to anything else, either."
Suddenly feeling sheepish, Mytho ducked his head a bit and set his waster aside. He noticed Fakir's gaze lingering on him as he moved, but decided against mentioning it. After all, the jug he'd brought looked awfully promising, and one had to prioritize such things.
"Some things never change," he said as he went to join Fakir on the bench. The sweet breeze picked up, and Mytho noticed for the first time that Fakir's hair was unbound. "Have you been watching long?"
Fakir tucked a black strand behind his ear and nodded. "I watched for a while earlier, then I went to the kitchens for water. I was foolish enough to expect you to be done by the time I returned."
"Oh, thank you," Mytho said, laying a hand on the jug's cool surface. The promise of water reminded him quite strongly of his own fatigue and thirst, and he wanted very much to lift it to his lips and down the entire thing. Even so, he found himself observing Fakir, watching the rise and fall of his chest and considering the tone of his skin. His hand fell back to his side. "You shouldn't have, though. Are you still feeling well?"
"I'm fine," Fakir said crossly. He set the jug in Mytho's lap and sighed. "Drink. I've had more than enough rest, I've healed, and I feel perfectly fine. You, however, still can't take care of yourself even in good health."
Mytho tipped the jug to his lips and took several huge gulps of the water before responding, his voice trembling a bit from the chill of the water.
"I'm lucky to have people who can care for me, then," he said. That seemed to please Fakir, for his smiled broadened and he directed his gaze away the same way he always had when he felt a bit guilty. Why could he recognize these things in Fakir?
They passed several long minutes in silence, taking sips of water and watching the breeze ripple through the flowerbeds and high grasses at the other edge of the court. A strange lightness came over him then, something distantly familiar and greatly welcome, as if he had rediscovered another feeling. Of course, that was impossible. Still, the feeling stirred him and commanded him to move, to grasp Fakir's hand and stand with him.
"What are you-" For some reason, Fakir stopped his sentence short, his eyes wide and fixed on him. Mytho paused to examine Fakir's hand, immediately suspecting that he'd aggravated the old injury.
"Does it hurt?" he asked. Lithe fingers curled around his, and Fakir shook his head.
"No, it's fine," he said. "What are you doing?"
Relieved, Mytho released Fakir's hand and offered his own. "I... would like to dance with you," he said, slowly, just fully realizing his intentions himself.
Fakir's cheeks reddened, and Mytho wondered if he'd said something strange. Before he could ask, Fakir took his hand and gave a hesitant nod. Again, that unnameable sensation arose in his heart, accompanied now by a strange sort of tension that melted away once he'd stepped out of his boots and into the familiar motions of their dance.
He had expected to feel strange dancing with Fakir again, but somehow they moved in perfect concert with one another, their movements as balanced and ideal as the stones at their feet would allow. Their movements were slow and cautious on account of the less than perfect stage and his own lack of any shoes to speak of.
The rough cobbles catching the soles of his hose reminded him of other awkward and imperfect dances, of tiny splinters in the floor of an old house and furniture shoved hastily against walls that were just as worn, and of a Fakir much smaller and more openhearted than the Fakir he had left behind. Fakir's childhood bedroom had made a sufficient enough place to practice during the evenings leading up to the practical examinations that would determine their eligibility to attend the Academy.
Then,as now, Fakir's face had been a mask of cautious concentration and uneasy confidence. Mytho remembered it well, and only now recognized the narrowed but wandering eyes and set jaw for what they were. Fakir had been only twelve years old then and, as he had described himself on more than one occasion, nothing but arms and legs. In the interest of protecting him, Fakir had insisted on being his partner in practicing dancing a pas de deux, while Fakir himself practiced with a girl whose name Mytho had long forgotten. The arrangement had worked rather well, given that Fakir was still several inches shorter than Mytho and quite light enough to be supported and lifted. He had even asked his tutor to teach him to stand en pointe, and though he hadn't mastered it before the exams he had performed as well as he could in their improvised studio.
Suddenly curious, he let his hands glide down Fakir's sides to rest on his hips, offer gentle support and asking with his eyes, 'Can you still do it?'
Fakir regarded him with confusion before he recognized the old cue, nodded, and rose up onto the square tips of his boots. An odd smile played over the knight's face, and Mytho felt a tremor ripple down Fakir's body. In one swift, instinctual motion, he swept Fakir down into his arms to relieve him, feeling more than a little guilty for expecting him to even try after so long and with no proper shoes. Fakir's body moved with his, crumpling and melting into his arms, half-supported and resting in the crook of his arm.
He could feel Fakir's chest rise and fall rapidly against the hand that held him and waited patiently for him to relax and speak. As he waited, Fakir looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes and reddened cheeks.
"Sorry," he said once it became obvious that Fakir would not be the first to speak.
"It's all right," Fakir said, the words rushing out of his mouth. He gathered himself and stood back up. "I was the one who fell into you. Thank you for the dance."
Mytho smiled and nodded, secretly grateful to have seen the flustered and unguarded side of Fakir again, if only for a moment. "I'll dance with you again sometime, if you like."
"I... would like that a lot," Fakir said, his voice low and reserved once more. He swallowed audibly and took a step backward toward the garden gate. "I should go find Ahiru and remind her to get ready for tonight."
Still smiling, Mytho slipped his shirt back on and nodded. "It's hardly late in the day, but I understand."
Fakir turned on his heel and walked swiftly away, as if relieved of some miserable task, and Mytho's smile grew as he watched him walk off.
---
He had found Ahiru dozing on the veranda outside her room, her hair in messy braids she'd left in all night and a book resting on her chest. It was behavior like this that made it necessary to remind her to dress and wash up several hours before the event was to even begin.
They braided her hair and took a cold lunch together on the same veranda, neither of them especially eager to wade into the throng of well-wishers until it was absolutely necessary. Idle conversation helped him forget his embarrassment over his dance with Mytho, though not the warm and tremulous elation he had felt throughout it, the feeling that had peaked when Mytho swept him into his arms and looked down at him with eyes filled with curious concern. And to remember that was to be embarrassed all over again. To his relief, Ahiru either didn't notice his occasional cringing or chose to ignore it.
Not long after their lunch concluded, their conversation was interrupted by a small squadron of squawking maids who practically plucked Ahiru out of her seat, all the while announcing that it was long past time for her to start getting ready. Fakir had been unable to smother his laughter as she was led away, calling her apologies behind her. One of the ladies broke off from the group and shooed him out, explaining that he could go take care of getting himself ready.
He, of course, had waited entirely too long to start doing so. Standing before the mirror in his chambers, he struggled to carefully button every tiny button on the form-fitting sleeves of his shirt. They seemed to enjoy popping open around his shoulders where they were most difficult to button in the first place.
Downstairs, the feast to celebrate their imminent departure carried on without him, music and chatter wafting up the across courtyards and up stairwells to reach his burning ears. He had been assured that he wasn't expected to make an appearance immediately, but somehow that knowledge only made him feel more inadequate for not being prepared. He should have taken it as a warning of how much more complicated this set of clothing would be compared to the one he had worn to the first feast.
With every silver button on his sleeves finally buttoned, he turned his attention to the tabard and belt laid out on his bed. These were far easier to get on, leaving only the same red cape he'd worn before, the cape he still felt uneasy and unworthy pulling on. As an afterthought, he pulled a length of ribbon from the little chest on his dressing table and tied his hair back before rushing out the door.
Ahiru greeted him just inside the grand hall, a cheeky smile on her face as she looked him up and down. "And you were the one expecting me to be late," she said. Fakir's face burned even though he knew she meant no harm.
She must have noticed the color on his face, as she covered a laugh as she grabbed his hand and led him to one side of the aisle that led up to the dais. Most of the benches and tables had been carried out into the courtyard that afternoon to make ample room for the standing audience.
"You look nice," she said once they'd found space to stand. "Almost, you know, like you didn't almost die last week."
Fakir scoffed and looked her over. The maids had done a better job of dressing her than he had, certainly. The bright yellow gown with a puffy skirt and sleeves complemented her well and flattered some of the more awkward changes to her body.
"And you look beautiful," he said in return, smirking and turning away when she blushed. "Almost like you weren't a duck last week."
A white gloved fist connected with his shoulder, and he stifled a little laugh. Her anger was short-lived, of course.
"They pulled and tugged at my hair for an hour to get it to do this," she said sullenly. "And I look like I have sweet buns on my head..."
"You look fine," Fakir said, though he couldn't help but secretly agree once she pointed it out. "Where are Mytho and Rue, anyway?"
Ahiru blinked and leaned into the aisle, looking up and down it before turning to a woman standing nearby and asking, "Ma'am? Ma'am? Um, when will the prince and princess arrive?" Fakir cringed.
"Shortly, darling, shortly," the woman replied, not as bothered by the question as Fakir had expected. Perhaps she had children. "Prince Siegfried will come shortly to address us, and then the feast can begin. Just be patient."
Ahiru turned back to him just in time to catch him grimacing. She pouted. "Don't look at me like that, it doesn't hurt to ask.
"Of course," Fakir mumbled before falling silent. He wasn't in any mood to mingle and was content to let the other attendees chatter amongst themselves. The din reverberated off the walls and windows, and before long it all sounded like one continuous sound, like a cicada swarm in the middle of summer.
The cicada buzz ceased with startling immediacy when the sound of a trumpet blared from the entry to the hall, and every head turned to face the aisle as some triumphant and vaguely familiar tune heralded the arrival of the prince and princess.
They walked side by side to the tune of the music, though Fakir only took any real notice of Mytho. The prince's face was set in determination, his eyes focused and alert. Everything about him, from his skin to the scabbard at his hip, was brilliant white trimmed in gold, and to watch him proceed through the dimly-lit grand hall was almost surreal.
The music wound down as they stepped up on the dais, Rue one step behind Mytho, standing silent in support of her precious prince. Once the room was suitably silent, Mytho raised his soft voice to address the crowd, speaking in a tone of authority to which Fakir had still not adjusted. To hear Mytho speak with purpose and direction was one thing, but it was quite another when he spoke with the practiced authority of a monarch.
"There are two among you tonight who have not taken their rightful places beside me," he said, his intent gaze shifting to their side of the aisle. Ahiru elbowed him, smiling. "Ahiru and Fakir, please come forward."
They slipped out onto the aisle as quietly as they could manage, though Fakir's boots made an upsetting racket as he stepped carefully over the toes of closely-packed onlookers. No music played as they approached the platform, and Fakir was almost relieved at that. If any more attention was drawn to him at that moment, he might have combusted.
He dropped to one knee at the edge of the platform, dragging Ahiru down with him. To his confusion, a white hand extended out before him.
"Beside me, not before me," Mytho said, his voice just above a whisper, perhaps to save them the embarrassment of having acted inappropriately humble. He helped Ahiru up next, and they moved to stand beside him as he began his address.
"My people, I have little to tell you that you do not already know. Our kingdom is threatened by a powerful evil that, even as we revel tonight, encroaches upon all lands not under magical protection. You know of my plans to confront this evil, and you know of the attempt on my life on the first of May. You know that tomorrow I will leave the safety of Edelstein with my two trusted companions, leaving my courtly duties in the control of your princess. What you may not know is that I intend to return, not in one hundred years' time, but before autumn's end. We will return whole to you, every one of us."
Concerned by the undercurrent of guilt in Mytho's words, Fakir glanced toward the prince in time to see him draw his sword and hold it before him. The music swelled again, building toward its crescendo as Mytho spoke.
"Revel tonight with no worries. Think of this not as sending us off, but as an early celebration of the return of peace to our kingdom. Celebrate our victory tonight."
Mytho may have said more, but the music and roaring response from the crowd made it impossible to tell.
I had planned to post this with some extra materials, namely an e-book format copy of the first six chapters, and an FST, but with a hurricane staring me right in the junk I'm afraid that tonight might be my last chance to post it at all this week. So, here you go.
Title: A Dream of Spring, Ch. 6
Rating: PG-13, mostly for content later on in the fic
Characters: Fakir,Ahiru, Rue, Mytho, Autor
Story Summary: Fakir has stopped writing. Strange disappearances and troubling dreams precede the arrival of a letter from Siegfried calling him to the story world's aid. He must take up the role of the Knight once more, but he will not go alone.
Chapter Summary: The day before departure, tensions and anxieties are high, and hearts uneasy.
You can read previous installments at Fanfiction.net.
The scene played out in ugly silence. Mist settled heavy and thick on the lake's surface, barely disturbed as Siegfried, suspended by enchanted boots, strode out onto the water. He looked past a familiar from obscured by the mist to scan the sky, searching for two points of red light. Suddenly a powerful gust of wind - and another, and another, the beats of enormous wings - whisked the mist away. Waves lapped at his feet, and though no sound heralded the Raven's arrival he could feel the force of a hundred ancient trees snapping and splintering and shattering under its weight. It rattled in his chest like the shock that follows a thunderclap.
They exchanged words. Threats, taunts, feeble attempts at bargaining, all voiceless. He knew the words well enough that it hardly mattered, and for the briefest of moments he knew that he was trapped. As if responding to his distress, time slipped aside. Words ceased, water droplets scattered, and the Raven came at him in a lurch, its eyes blazing with hate and hunger. His sword flashed, the blade catching brilliant red and pale moonlight. Blows fell in a blur of motion, the long battle glossed over and sped along in a flurry of fleeting moments.
Time slowed with cruel precision on the crucial blow. A flash of motion, a voiceless shout, a shower of blood in droplets that disappeared under the surface of the water and left an ugly red cloud that spread and spread from the crumpled pile of torn rent flesh and metal resting on the water's surface, suspended just as Siegfried was. He did not cross the lake to the torn body of his companion, only found himself suddenly on his knees with blood on his hands. On his arms. Seeping through the tabard over his chest. Everywhere, more blood than he could imagine. So much blood that he hardly noticed the scarlet droplets pouring down from the gathered clouds, matting his hair and stirring ripples on the lake.
No sound escaped his throat even as he felt his mouth open to form words.
'You'll be-'
'Please...'
'I'm here. Forgive me.'
With that, the gruesome scene faded, utterly forgotten as sound flooded back into his world. A voice, stern yet warm, spoke directly into his ear.
"You really don't understand what's good for you."
The world flipped onto its side, taking him along with it and depositing him in his bed. His pounding heart slowed, and he felt at ease.
"Are you even listening to me?"
His eyes snapped open to the sight of the familiar white ceiling of his dorm room. It slowly drifted lower, drawing nearer to him only to snap back to a dizzying height when the voice called to him again.
"Always a disappointment."
He was standing. The floor was cold, the room empty. He glanced around himself like a lost child. "Who's there?" he called.
The floor fell away a tile at a time. The walls fell away into empty white space. And he finally started awake.
Sound, true sound, reached Mytho's ears at last as he lay on his side in bed, fingers dug deep into his pillow. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, a slight smile coming to his face as the dream rapidly faded, replaced by the toast-warm comfort of his bed and the twittering sound of birdsong outside his window. A thin ribbon of sunlight filtered through the gap in the drapes around his bed, which he lazily pushed aside as he sat up. He pulled his nightgown over his head and let it fall to the floor, eager to start dressing. He'd realized early on after regaining his ability to enjoy things that he would linger in a comfortable bed until just before lunch if he didn't rise as soon as he was able.
He dressed quickly, pausing between slipping his hose on and struggling into his shirt to turn a slow pirouette on the smooth stone floor. Dancing, after ten whole years with little else that made him feel any closer to his true self, remained something familiar and comfortable, a part of him that had endured throughout his life. When he shattered his heart, he staggered in Rue and Fakir's story knowing very little. Still, he knew compassion, and he knew that dancing touched something inside his gutted chest and made him feel more complete.
The heavy door to his chambers opened, and he turned just in time to see a thin white arm deposit a little covered platter on the table beside the door.
"Thank you, Marta," he called as he crossed the room with quick, light steps. His breakfast, as usual, was a small roll smeared with jam eaten only as quickly as he found his boots. Since he was inclined to walk around his rooms a bit before pulling them off every night, this sometimes made for a lengthy breakfast.
Boots found and breakfast eaten, he left his room only a quarter hour after waking. Marta ducked in to tidy up the moment he stepped out, just as she had every morning since he returned. A group of guards nodded their heads to him in unison as he passed them in the corridor and he returned the gesture languidly. Only when he stepped out onto the open walkway over the castle's eastern garden did he begin to feel properly awake. Warm air carrying the sweetness of nearby orchards that the icy plague had yet spared flowed into his chest and washed his heart and mind clean, sweeping out fatigue and lingering dreams.
A great desire struck him at that moment, a desire to move and to dance, a desire for action brought about by the sweet scent on the wind that reminded him immediately of what his people stood to lose. He doubled back to his room, passing the same group of guards on his way, and retrieved his battered waster from his wardrobe. Even without a partner swordplay was enough like dancing to satisfy him, and it was certain to satisfy his need for aggressive catharsis.
He descended into the eastern garden, his heart coming alive and thrumming against the walls of his chest as he bounded down the steps. He had forgotten his love of swordplay without his heart, and every opportunity to make up for lost time sent a giddy thrill through him no matter the circumstances. It may be small, but he always felt something powerful and affirming when he held a sword in his hand. He felt more like himself, just as he did when he danced.
The eastern garden, with its wide court of smooth stones and seclusion from the rest of the castle, made an excellent stage for his morning exercises when the weather permitted it. He almost preferred to practice alone, stepping through planned and choreographed patterns and dueling unseen opponents without fear of interruption.
He stripped off his shirt and left it neatly folded on a stone bench at the edge of the court, sighing in contentment at the sensation of late morning sunlight falling on his bare back and shoulders. He would miss that feeling after today, when even the brightest day beyond Edelstein's borders offered only blinding whiteness and no warmth to speak of. He trembled just to think of it, and quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the court with sword in hand to exorcise his anxieties and clear his mind.
For the first few minutes of his practice, before he slipped into thoughtless and automatic motion, he found himself naming off positions as he moved. Fourth, fifth, always aware of his feet. This awareness faded into the back of his mind as he carried on, hour after hour, though it always remained. To fight, in his mind, would always be to dance. After so many years spent with nothing but dance to fill his heart, he likened many things to it. Fighting, love, riding, even conversation seemed like a dance to him.
Late morning faded away into early afternoon, the dew steamed away by the sun that crept higher and higher in the sky and the twittering of waking birds gradually quieting.
Today was their final day of rest before their journey was to begin, and neither he nor Fakir were to be disturbed except in the event of a grave emergency. Mytho could afford to play out his battles with imagined assailants hiding amongst the rose bushes and behind the trees, to pour his anxiety out with swipes of his sword and grand leaps across the court.
He cut a wide arc out of the air, his lips pressed in a thin line of intense concentration he intended to keep despite the constant needling of his misgivings. Even his princess wouldn't disturb him, he was certain. She'd grown cagey over the past few weeks, keeping to herself and brushing him off when he expressed concern over the change in her demeanor. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd returned to his chambers to find her sitting placidly on the bench beside his window, waiting to welcome him.
She was worried for him, he knew that much. She had said as much, but it was what went unsaid that concerned him most, largely because he found it so difficult to determine just what certain disapproving glances meant. Or what silence meant at certain times. He could only discern a formless, nameless displeasure she refused to explain.
The phantoms behind the trees evaporated into the hazy afternoon air as his anxieties poured out with his energy and sweat, his mind slowly slipping into a state of fatigued contentment. He let his body fall into a restful position, arms hanging at his sides as the same sweet breeze that had awakened him rushed over his heated skin and tousled his hair. A small smile came to his face as the last of his concerns drained away.
"You always work until you're too tired to," a voice commented behind him. He flinched and whirled around to find Fakir sitting on the bench he'd left his shirt on, a little clay jug resting beside him. His mouth was turned up in the slightest of smiles, his tone warm and fond. "You don't pay any attention to anything else, either."
Suddenly feeling sheepish, Mytho ducked his head a bit and set his waster aside. He noticed Fakir's gaze lingering on him as he moved, but decided against mentioning it. After all, the jug he'd brought looked awfully promising, and one had to prioritize such things.
"Some things never change," he said as he went to join Fakir on the bench. The sweet breeze picked up, and Mytho noticed for the first time that Fakir's hair was unbound. "Have you been watching long?"
Fakir tucked a black strand behind his ear and nodded. "I watched for a while earlier, then I went to the kitchens for water. I was foolish enough to expect you to be done by the time I returned."
"Oh, thank you," Mytho said, laying a hand on the jug's cool surface. The promise of water reminded him quite strongly of his own fatigue and thirst, and he wanted very much to lift it to his lips and down the entire thing. Even so, he found himself observing Fakir, watching the rise and fall of his chest and considering the tone of his skin. His hand fell back to his side. "You shouldn't have, though. Are you still feeling well?"
"I'm fine," Fakir said crossly. He set the jug in Mytho's lap and sighed. "Drink. I've had more than enough rest, I've healed, and I feel perfectly fine. You, however, still can't take care of yourself even in good health."
Mytho tipped the jug to his lips and took several huge gulps of the water before responding, his voice trembling a bit from the chill of the water.
"I'm lucky to have people who can care for me, then," he said. That seemed to please Fakir, for his smiled broadened and he directed his gaze away the same way he always had when he felt a bit guilty. Why could he recognize these things in Fakir?
They passed several long minutes in silence, taking sips of water and watching the breeze ripple through the flowerbeds and high grasses at the other edge of the court. A strange lightness came over him then, something distantly familiar and greatly welcome, as if he had rediscovered another feeling. Of course, that was impossible. Still, the feeling stirred him and commanded him to move, to grasp Fakir's hand and stand with him.
"What are you-" For some reason, Fakir stopped his sentence short, his eyes wide and fixed on him. Mytho paused to examine Fakir's hand, immediately suspecting that he'd aggravated the old injury.
"Does it hurt?" he asked. Lithe fingers curled around his, and Fakir shook his head.
"No, it's fine," he said. "What are you doing?"
Relieved, Mytho released Fakir's hand and offered his own. "I... would like to dance with you," he said, slowly, just fully realizing his intentions himself.
Fakir's cheeks reddened, and Mytho wondered if he'd said something strange. Before he could ask, Fakir took his hand and gave a hesitant nod. Again, that unnameable sensation arose in his heart, accompanied now by a strange sort of tension that melted away once he'd stepped out of his boots and into the familiar motions of their dance.
He had expected to feel strange dancing with Fakir again, but somehow they moved in perfect concert with one another, their movements as balanced and ideal as the stones at their feet would allow. Their movements were slow and cautious on account of the less than perfect stage and his own lack of any shoes to speak of.
The rough cobbles catching the soles of his hose reminded him of other awkward and imperfect dances, of tiny splinters in the floor of an old house and furniture shoved hastily against walls that were just as worn, and of a Fakir much smaller and more openhearted than the Fakir he had left behind. Fakir's childhood bedroom had made a sufficient enough place to practice during the evenings leading up to the practical examinations that would determine their eligibility to attend the Academy.
Then,as now, Fakir's face had been a mask of cautious concentration and uneasy confidence. Mytho remembered it well, and only now recognized the narrowed but wandering eyes and set jaw for what they were. Fakir had been only twelve years old then and, as he had described himself on more than one occasion, nothing but arms and legs. In the interest of protecting him, Fakir had insisted on being his partner in practicing dancing a pas de deux, while Fakir himself practiced with a girl whose name Mytho had long forgotten. The arrangement had worked rather well, given that Fakir was still several inches shorter than Mytho and quite light enough to be supported and lifted. He had even asked his tutor to teach him to stand en pointe, and though he hadn't mastered it before the exams he had performed as well as he could in their improvised studio.
Suddenly curious, he let his hands glide down Fakir's sides to rest on his hips, offer gentle support and asking with his eyes, 'Can you still do it?'
Fakir regarded him with confusion before he recognized the old cue, nodded, and rose up onto the square tips of his boots. An odd smile played over the knight's face, and Mytho felt a tremor ripple down Fakir's body. In one swift, instinctual motion, he swept Fakir down into his arms to relieve him, feeling more than a little guilty for expecting him to even try after so long and with no proper shoes. Fakir's body moved with his, crumpling and melting into his arms, half-supported and resting in the crook of his arm.
He could feel Fakir's chest rise and fall rapidly against the hand that held him and waited patiently for him to relax and speak. As he waited, Fakir looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes and reddened cheeks.
"Sorry," he said once it became obvious that Fakir would not be the first to speak.
"It's all right," Fakir said, the words rushing out of his mouth. He gathered himself and stood back up. "I was the one who fell into you. Thank you for the dance."
Mytho smiled and nodded, secretly grateful to have seen the flustered and unguarded side of Fakir again, if only for a moment. "I'll dance with you again sometime, if you like."
"I... would like that a lot," Fakir said, his voice low and reserved once more. He swallowed audibly and took a step backward toward the garden gate. "I should go find Ahiru and remind her to get ready for tonight."
Still smiling, Mytho slipped his shirt back on and nodded. "It's hardly late in the day, but I understand."
Fakir turned on his heel and walked swiftly away, as if relieved of some miserable task, and Mytho's smile grew as he watched him walk off.
---
He had found Ahiru dozing on the veranda outside her room, her hair in messy braids she'd left in all night and a book resting on her chest. It was behavior like this that made it necessary to remind her to dress and wash up several hours before the event was to even begin.
They braided her hair and took a cold lunch together on the same veranda, neither of them especially eager to wade into the throng of well-wishers until it was absolutely necessary. Idle conversation helped him forget his embarrassment over his dance with Mytho, though not the warm and tremulous elation he had felt throughout it, the feeling that had peaked when Mytho swept him into his arms and looked down at him with eyes filled with curious concern. And to remember that was to be embarrassed all over again. To his relief, Ahiru either didn't notice his occasional cringing or chose to ignore it.
Not long after their lunch concluded, their conversation was interrupted by a small squadron of squawking maids who practically plucked Ahiru out of her seat, all the while announcing that it was long past time for her to start getting ready. Fakir had been unable to smother his laughter as she was led away, calling her apologies behind her. One of the ladies broke off from the group and shooed him out, explaining that he could go take care of getting himself ready.
He, of course, had waited entirely too long to start doing so. Standing before the mirror in his chambers, he struggled to carefully button every tiny button on the form-fitting sleeves of his shirt. They seemed to enjoy popping open around his shoulders where they were most difficult to button in the first place.
Downstairs, the feast to celebrate their imminent departure carried on without him, music and chatter wafting up the across courtyards and up stairwells to reach his burning ears. He had been assured that he wasn't expected to make an appearance immediately, but somehow that knowledge only made him feel more inadequate for not being prepared. He should have taken it as a warning of how much more complicated this set of clothing would be compared to the one he had worn to the first feast.
With every silver button on his sleeves finally buttoned, he turned his attention to the tabard and belt laid out on his bed. These were far easier to get on, leaving only the same red cape he'd worn before, the cape he still felt uneasy and unworthy pulling on. As an afterthought, he pulled a length of ribbon from the little chest on his dressing table and tied his hair back before rushing out the door.
Ahiru greeted him just inside the grand hall, a cheeky smile on her face as she looked him up and down. "And you were the one expecting me to be late," she said. Fakir's face burned even though he knew she meant no harm.
She must have noticed the color on his face, as she covered a laugh as she grabbed his hand and led him to one side of the aisle that led up to the dais. Most of the benches and tables had been carried out into the courtyard that afternoon to make ample room for the standing audience.
"You look nice," she said once they'd found space to stand. "Almost, you know, like you didn't almost die last week."
Fakir scoffed and looked her over. The maids had done a better job of dressing her than he had, certainly. The bright yellow gown with a puffy skirt and sleeves complemented her well and flattered some of the more awkward changes to her body.
"And you look beautiful," he said in return, smirking and turning away when she blushed. "Almost like you weren't a duck last week."
A white gloved fist connected with his shoulder, and he stifled a little laugh. Her anger was short-lived, of course.
"They pulled and tugged at my hair for an hour to get it to do this," she said sullenly. "And I look like I have sweet buns on my head..."
"You look fine," Fakir said, though he couldn't help but secretly agree once she pointed it out. "Where are Mytho and Rue, anyway?"
Ahiru blinked and leaned into the aisle, looking up and down it before turning to a woman standing nearby and asking, "Ma'am? Ma'am? Um, when will the prince and princess arrive?" Fakir cringed.
"Shortly, darling, shortly," the woman replied, not as bothered by the question as Fakir had expected. Perhaps she had children. "Prince Siegfried will come shortly to address us, and then the feast can begin. Just be patient."
Ahiru turned back to him just in time to catch him grimacing. She pouted. "Don't look at me like that, it doesn't hurt to ask.
"Of course," Fakir mumbled before falling silent. He wasn't in any mood to mingle and was content to let the other attendees chatter amongst themselves. The din reverberated off the walls and windows, and before long it all sounded like one continuous sound, like a cicada swarm in the middle of summer.
The cicada buzz ceased with startling immediacy when the sound of a trumpet blared from the entry to the hall, and every head turned to face the aisle as some triumphant and vaguely familiar tune heralded the arrival of the prince and princess.
They walked side by side to the tune of the music, though Fakir only took any real notice of Mytho. The prince's face was set in determination, his eyes focused and alert. Everything about him, from his skin to the scabbard at his hip, was brilliant white trimmed in gold, and to watch him proceed through the dimly-lit grand hall was almost surreal.
The music wound down as they stepped up on the dais, Rue one step behind Mytho, standing silent in support of her precious prince. Once the room was suitably silent, Mytho raised his soft voice to address the crowd, speaking in a tone of authority to which Fakir had still not adjusted. To hear Mytho speak with purpose and direction was one thing, but it was quite another when he spoke with the practiced authority of a monarch.
"There are two among you tonight who have not taken their rightful places beside me," he said, his intent gaze shifting to their side of the aisle. Ahiru elbowed him, smiling. "Ahiru and Fakir, please come forward."
They slipped out onto the aisle as quietly as they could manage, though Fakir's boots made an upsetting racket as he stepped carefully over the toes of closely-packed onlookers. No music played as they approached the platform, and Fakir was almost relieved at that. If any more attention was drawn to him at that moment, he might have combusted.
He dropped to one knee at the edge of the platform, dragging Ahiru down with him. To his confusion, a white hand extended out before him.
"Beside me, not before me," Mytho said, his voice just above a whisper, perhaps to save them the embarrassment of having acted inappropriately humble. He helped Ahiru up next, and they moved to stand beside him as he began his address.
"My people, I have little to tell you that you do not already know. Our kingdom is threatened by a powerful evil that, even as we revel tonight, encroaches upon all lands not under magical protection. You know of my plans to confront this evil, and you know of the attempt on my life on the first of May. You know that tomorrow I will leave the safety of Edelstein with my two trusted companions, leaving my courtly duties in the control of your princess. What you may not know is that I intend to return, not in one hundred years' time, but before autumn's end. We will return whole to you, every one of us."
Concerned by the undercurrent of guilt in Mytho's words, Fakir glanced toward the prince in time to see him draw his sword and hold it before him. The music swelled again, building toward its crescendo as Mytho spoke.
"Revel tonight with no worries. Think of this not as sending us off, but as an early celebration of the return of peace to our kingdom. Celebrate our victory tonight."
Mytho may have said more, but the music and roaring response from the crowd made it impossible to tell.
