The Heart of Everything. A Princess Tutu AU fic. (check out this post to learn more!)
Rating: PG-13/T
Chapter Four ~ 7213 words. [Prologue] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three]
Summary: The ball begins, and a newcomer has unforeseen effects on the festivites. Meanwhile, Ahiru has an interesting experience of her own.
In retrospect, Mytho thought, it would have probably been a better idea to tell the arriving guests of Ahiru’s absence right at the start. The whole point of the ball, after all, had been to introduce her to the people of the land. That was what had been printed on the invitations, and that was what the crowd had been rightfully expecting. It just hadn’t seemed like a very pressing issue at the time, really.
Now, as the prince stared out into a sea of confused and unhappy faces, he realized he’d made a grave mistake.
“Is she sick?” Someone called out, sounding worried.
“She was only here for a moment,” a woman near the front of the crowd complained. “No one saw her for more than a second or two! Not even a royal dance!”
“You’re not trying to hide her away, are you? Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Mytho insisted for the fifth time in a row, raising his hands as a new roar of voices vibrated through the crowd. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all! The princess merely has a -- a severe allergy to moonlight. She wanted to stay, but her condition is serious, I assure you.”
More murmuring. More displeased faces. A few people near the fringes of the crowd drifted away, huffing in their stride back to the darkened exits.
“Is there even such a thing?” An older gentleman scoffed, just before he took his wife by the arm and led her away as well. Similar dissent swelled throughout the room, and the prince fought down a sigh.
“It doesn’t mean the ball has to end,” he weakly offered, but the ballroom was already filled to the brim with the sound of clattering heels, of swishing fabric and disappointed sighs as the crowd thinned. Even the musicians’ cheerful tune faltered and came to a final halt as they set their instruments aside.
Mytho found himself at a loss. He looked to the guards at each doorway and to the knights scattered amidst the townspeople for some sort of assistance, but they all looked just as bewildered as he felt. He couldn’t make them all stay, he knew, but it just couldn’t end on such a horrible note! What could...
“My, how disappointing.”
His desperate thoughts dwindled away as an unfamiliar voice cut through all the commotion. A disturbance vibrated through the crowd, and countless forms shifted, stepping away to make room for an approaching figure. It must have been whoever had spoken up, Mytho assumed, craning his neck to see. He couldn’t glimpse the new arrival, though, until the final few men and women lingering near him turned to look, and were promptly driven out of the way by the flourish of a feathered skirt, a pale hand beckoning them back -- followed by the woman to whom both belonged to.
She moved as though walking through water, each step slow and fluid, feet twisting around one another as they traced a meandering line into the center of the room. Her dress, an endless black, fluttered with every movement, edges as soft and uneven as feathers. Waves of dark hair framed her pale face, and when she looked up at last, the light caught in her eyes, irises as red as the jewel she wore in the center of her chest.
The crowd fell quiet, with those who had remained gathering together to watch as the woman approached the prince. Her steps were fast and brazen, only pausing when she was but a few breaths away. Mytho wasn’t sure what to think, but met her gaze when she looked to him, lips curled in the softest of smiles.
She took up the skirt of her gown in both hands and curtsied, so deeply that her body seemed painted along the floor for the longest of moments. She stood then, and turned to face the crowd.
“How very disappointing,” she spoke, and her voice was strong, echoing within the vast length of the room like a melody newly born. “This ball is quite lovely, and yet, everyone chooses to leave before it’s even begun. Is this how you treat your beloved prince? To be honest, I find it disrespectful.”
No one spoke. Her smile deepened. Her arms rose into the air, splayed towards the crowd, as though beckoning for an answer.
“Is all of this discourse taking place because a simple princess is missing?”
Still, no sound. Men and women glanced to one another, unsure of what to make of this woman, of these words. Still, no one could look away for long, and every gaze in the room watched as her eyes fluttered close, a pleasing laugh trembling along the curve of her lips.
“So be it,” she drawled, and twirled her body in a graceful circle. “I will be your princess for the evening. Surely you all can pretend I am the one you wished to see, can’t you? Think of it as a substitute, as filling in.”
She turned to the musicians, then, who had remained still through her words, and gestured for them to pick up their instruments.
“Play, won’t you? The silence is deafening.”
The men looked to one another, and after a moment, shrugged and did as she asked. Music, slow and cautious, swelled within the ballroom. Still, the crowd hesitated to move, glancing to others for guidance.
The woman in black spun around to face Mytho once more. In the span of a moment, she had closed the distance between them. He realized she was close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough for him to see each gentle curl of her hair and curve of her red smile. Close enough to feel on his face every breath she took.
Needless to say, he could hardly remember his own name at that moment.
She held out an elegant hand towards him, light catching along her long nails.
“Won’t you dance with me, your highness?”
Her voice was soft. Her gaze didn’t waver and held to him without fail. She was beautiful, he thought without meaning to, and found himself unable to come up with one decent reason why he should refuse her.
So he didn’t.
“Of course.” He reached out to her, resting his fingertips against the lines of her palm. She gripped them at once, a sharp smile betraying her gentler features, and pulled him closer. All at once, they took hold of the other, his shoulder, her waist, their hands, high in the air, trembling against one another.
The musicians seemed to have hit their stride, a beautiful tune flooding through the room. People throughout the crowd murmured, some disapproving, some entranced. “Do not mind them,” she whispered against the curve of Mytho’s shoulder when he hesitated, touching her long nails to his face. “Look at only me.”
He did, and they danced.
She moved like air against his hands. He was barely leading her at all, Mytho realized, instead merely following as she stepped, swayed, and spun with such grace that he found himself short of breath. The dissent in the crowd was melting away, replaced with gasping words of praise and wonder.
He twirled her in a slow circle, and instead of clutching his shoulder once more, she laid her palm flat against his chest. “Your heartbeat is quickening,” she commented, lips thick with a smirk. “Do I make you nervous, prince?”
“N-Not at all,” he stammered, which was probably an answer enough in itself -- but then she laughed, and soon, he was laughing as well, irrationally unable to think of a happier moment in his life before this one. Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm. Their gazes did not waver, and they danced still.
The crowd separated; slowly at first, then faster and faster. Couples formed, splayed along the immense length of the floor in careful circles. Women curtsied. Men bowed. Hands were offered, then taken, and a thousand skirts swept against a thousand pairs of twirling legs as the dancing began.
Awkwardness lingered, but as nervous patrons turned to look upon the prince and his lady -- his princess, they thought in breathless admiration, only after a moment remembering to add ’for the evening’ -- in the center, they found such grace reassuring, and soon enough, the ball was alive with music and movement, all thoughts of anyone missing from the festivities soundly erased.
- - -
She was dancing. Yes, dancing with the prince, her perfect prince who held her close, spun her around and around and around until she could barely find a breath to call her own. She felt dizzy, so dizzy, and she thought to call his name, to ask him to stop for just a moment, but then his warm hands left her and she was stumbling away, unable to regain her balance. Her feet didn’t seem to work. Why weren’t they working?
She lifted her dress, but saw no ankles, no toes -- just two webbed feet, an ugly orange amidst all the beauty of her gown. That wasn’t right. These weren’t hers, they had to be someone else’s, had to be, she insisted, but still they remained. With a sharp breath, she yanked her skirt as far down as it would stretch, desperate to hide them away -- but then there were feathers on her arms, she realized, thick and yellow. Go away, she screamed, trying to shake them off, hot tears welling up in her eyes, but they were stuck, erasing her skin as if it was nothing more than a stray mark of paint. It wasn’t fair. How could she dance with webbed feet and yellow wings?
She thought to cry out, but then music flooded the room, loud and graceless, and countless forms were moving, dancing around her. No, not people, they were birds, they were ravens, dancing in irrational circles, reaching ragged claws out to drag her in. No, she cried, pulling away. No!
The music swelled to a grand pitch, and she pressed both wings to her ears, desperate to shut it out. It was too loud, too loud, TOO LOUD, TOO -- CLANG!
With a startled shriek, Ahiru hit the floor hard, roused to sudden consciousness.
She didn’t move for a moment, breathing hard against the worn rug while caught up in the fading fringes of her dream -- dancing, feathers, ravens, music. A few more quiet seconds passed, and the images finally faded away, replaced by innocent confusion. What time was it? Was it morning already?
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing darkness barely brightened by candlelight. With a groan, she lifted her head. In the open window, a curved moon still hung in the sky.
Ahiru blinked. But if it was still night, wouldn’t that mean --
She lifted up one arm out from under her body and held it up to her face. Her vision was finally clearing and adjusting to the darkness, enough to see that it wasn’t an arm at all, but a wing -- yellow, reluctantly familiar.
Still a duck.
With a sigh, she rose up unsteadily on her webbed feet and glanced around the room. Uzura was fast asleep on the floor, drumsticks still clutched in both little hands, and above her on the chair, Edel’s curved form sat slumped against the cushions, gently snoring. That was right, Ahiru remembered: they had stayed to keep her company. They had been listening to the music from the ball below...
The ball. Was it still going on? She listened.
Nothing, save for the gentle rustling of the wind.
A familiar sort of sadness sunk in as she buried her beak in both folded wings. All the partygoers had surely been furious to discover that she‘d up and left without so much as a single dance. They’d surely shouted, questioning the explanation for her absence -- was being allergic to moonlight even possible? -- and eventually stormed out, furious with their disgrace of a princess for disappointing them. All of those grand decorations and wonderful outfits, wasted.
Maybe she should have stayed, Ahiru thought, quacking out a weak laugh. She would have to tell everyone soon enough. Maybe it would have been better to just let them all watch her change and watch as Mytho danced with a duck, of all things. What a silly thought!
Her laugh died away just as quickly as it emerged, the bedroom feeling much too dark and lonely at that moment.
What a silly thought...
With one last sigh, she settled onto the rug and rested her head against Edel’s warm leg, drawing her wings over her body as though they were a blanket. No reason to dwell on it any longer. The ball was over and the damage was done. Nothing to do now but sleep, she thought, and allowed her eyes to droop closed once more --
-- only to be thrust haphazardly into the air once more by a sudden screech of music.
“QUUUUACK!” She couldn‘t help but cry out, wings desperately flapping in fear. Uzura murmured something indistinguishable into her curled hands. Edel shifted then fell still once more. Ahiru didn’t want to wake them, so she struggled to calm herself as she waddled in a frantic circle, but --- what was that!?
It had come from outside, she realized, but before Ahiru had even fully turned to look, another, calmer sound drifted into the room. Music?
Sure enough, it was a song, just begun -- gentle at first, but quickly swelling to a fevered pitch. A song meant for a waltz, she thought, waddling closer to the window. Wasn’t the ball over? Hadn’t everyone gone home?
It took some maneuvering - traveling to even the simplest of places was difficult in this form, she lamented -- but with a few clumsy hops across the length of her bed, she managed to flap her way to the stone windowsill.
It was a long way down, the ground little more than a blur of darkened brown and green below. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her for a moment, but she shook it away, looking instead to the elegant pools of light further down the field, cast by the grand windows of the ballroom. Countless dark shadows swayed in and out of view, raised hands, flourishing skirts obvious against the light. The music continued without a single pause, leading them on.
The ball hadn’t stopped at all; she had merely woken between songs. Apparently, they hadn’t found her absence distressing enough to stop altogether.
She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
Disappointed!? She stiffened at once, overcome with guilt. What was the matter with her? Of course they should have still had the ball! In fact, she hoped everyone was having lots of fun.
Still, as Ahiru watched the shadows twirl along the field, she found herself wishing more than anything that she could have taken part -- that she could see it, if only for a moment.
Maybe...
An idea struck, and she glanced up, taking note of the hint of roof sloping above her. There were a few windows up there, she remembered. She’d noticed them time and time again during her various practices within the ballroom -- round, stain-glassed, and so far away that they looked almost miniature, as if meant for mice to peer through. The ballroom was close to her room, so that had to mean they were only a little further up the roof, and then she could see, just for a second...
Ahiru had never been very good at flying, and briefly weighed her chances as she peered up at the ledge, then took a long, hard look down at the ground. It wasn’t that far away, she told herself, and shook all her hesitation away, spreading both wings wide.
Luck didn‘t seem to take pity on her, though. She’d barely left the ledge when she found herself thrown off-balance by an ill burst of wind, and she faltered dangerously in the open air for a moment before managing to cling the tips of her wings around the stone ledge. With a determined grunt and a few fervent prayers, she managed to drag her little body up. She finally stood on the sloped edge of the roof, breathless, the sky full and open above her.
And there were the windows, round pools of yellow light brimming against all the darkened stone of the castle. One waddling sprint up the steep incline, and she was there, beak pressed to the glass as she peered inside, unable to wait a moment longer.
It was all a colorful blur: couples poised in sweeping circles, clutched in one another’s arms as the music led their feet along, one, two, three, step. The tune flourished, and in one grand motion, the men lifted their ladies into the air and twirled them around, faces riddled with smiles all the while.
She found herself searching the crowd for Mytho. She didn’t see him around the tables, or watching from off to the side as a handful of others were. Had he chosen to dance after all?
Finally, she glimpsed him, a gasp of white amidst all the swirling color. He was near the middle of the circling couples, stepping and turning in perfect rhythm, moving closer to…
Who was that?
She had never seen the girl in Mytho’s arms before: soft face framed by dark hair, form little more than a curve of black against him. Ahiru watched with wide eyes as he took the stranger by the waist and twirled her high in the air, her red lips parting, mirroring his own open mouth. After a moment, she recognized it that they were both laughing.
Ahiru would be lying if she pretended the knot forming deep in her chest was anything other than jealousy.
It was silly, she knew. After all, she’d practically ordered Mytho to dance without her, to have fun even though she couldn’t be there, but still -- as she watched him gently lower his beautiful partner back to the ground and watched the way she settled into his arms, her own spread high like elegant wings -- Ahiru found herself giving into a burst of childish anger, if only for a moment.
It just wasn’t fair. That was supposed to be her down there, her and not some stranger, and she knew that it was only one dance, one ball, one night that wouldn’t mean anything in the morning -- but still! She was the one meant to be down there. She would have been down there, if not for the curse...
Her thought trailed off as Mytho arched his arm high, the girl’s long fingers raking down his palm as she spun away. It was the same move he had tried with her earlier that day, Ahiru remembered, the memory cropping up in the back of her mind: the empty ballroom floor, the whirling dizziness, her two feet, unable to complete the step, tripping over his innocent foot instead.
She watched. The girl’s dress fluttered around her as she turned, once, twice, three times. Her feet twisted and curled against one another as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Another breath, and she was back in his arms -- flawless.
She didn’t trip, or step on his feet, or look really silly. She was a wonderful dancer.
Ahiru found herself able to watch for only little longer; closed her eyes with a sigh. It had been a mistake to come and watch, she thought, and leaned her head against the pane --
-- only to quack in terror as the glass creaked and shifted out of place due to her weight. She yanked her wings upright, webbed feet stumbling backwards in a desperate effort not to crash right through the colored pane.
Unfortunately, by the time Ahiru realized just how steep the roof beneath her was, she was practically rolling, reduced to a ruffled ball of feathers and shrieking quacks. She dragged her wings across the stone, irrationally thinking they were hands, able to latch on -- but nothing helped.
The roof disappeared beneath her, and then she was falling, falling straight through the air, too shocked to even try and save herself, to even cry out. Her wings crumpled against her body, useless. The night sky shimmered above her, a million stars spiraling in dizzying fashions, growing farther and farther and farther away until --
-- the sudden stop.
She blinked, once, twice, her body arched in strange ways against whatever she’d hit. Her vision blurred; her thoughts were muddled. Green, there was green all around, like trees, like leaves, swallowing her up, and something hurt, she’d been hurt, somewhere, somehow, blood, she could smell blood, what now, how would she get back, her room was back up there, up at her window, up in the sky, miles and miles and miles away ---
Her thoughts trickled away just as quickly as they‘d seeped in, darkness overtaking her. The stars trembled in her drooping eyes, a thousand gems along the blackest of gowns. She gasped for one last breath, and was gone.
- - -
What a waste of time.
Fakir raked a stiff hand through his hair as he walked, the curving walls of the castle monstrous above him. He’d been circling for what felt like hours, glancing to open windows, watching the darkened trees tremble and twist in the wind. He wasn’t sure just where he was meaning to go -- only that he couldn’t have handled one more minute trapped in that deafening nightmare they were calling a ball.
He hadn’t even wanted to attend in the first place, but rather he had purposefully stayed within his quarters as the other knights gathered, in the hopes his absence would be overlooked. He should have realized that Charon, as quietly eager as ever, would go out of his way to check on him, to sternly inform him that ‘your sense of duty seems to be wavering’ and ‘your lord and lady expect your support’ and so many other noble, never-ending statements that eventually, he found himself forced to relent with a gritted ‘fine’.
The man had even managed to coerce him into dancing -- just how that had happened, he couldn’t remember. Apparently, his guardian for the past fifteen years had noticed a cluster of giggling girls lingering nearby as the music began and mentioned how it ‘couldn’t hurt his mood’ to humor a few of them with a quick waltz. He had begged to differ, but once again found himself reluctantly acquiescing after a handful of stern refusals, too tired, too distracted to fight the point for long.
That had ended quickly, though. He barely lasted through two songs, and even that was a miracle, what with those insufferable twits and their iron grips and incessant giggling.
In truth, the only reason he’d even lingered in the ballroom for as long as he did was due to a certain strange figure in the center of the room: the woman in black, who seemed permanently entangled in Mytho‘s arms. Over the years, Fakir had come to recognize mostly every face in town, if only faintly. After all, there were only so many that could live in such a small area, and newcomers and travelers were an impossibility, due to painfully obvious reasons. But that girl, he had thought -- following her twirling form across the vast length of the floor and back -- she was a complete stranger to him. To everyone, it seemed.
Fakir couldn‘t help but find her suspicious, and had wondered, hand itching for the hilt of his sword, if she meant to harm Mytho, to even stab him clean through as the two moved closer again and again. She even looked like a raven, with her dark hair, her red eyes, her gown, looking as if made from black feathers.
He’d continued to watch, feeling so sure of her intentions, but song after song after song slipped by, and the two kept dancing. A smile never left the stranger’s face, laughing with each careful step, each simple twirl, arms drawn high and free as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Harmless, he finally had to admit. Just another bothersome girl desperate for attention.
He was through with it, then. All the noise had given him a headache, and he’d managed to slip out between songs without anyone bothering him with questions as to why.
So here he was.
Fakir kicked a pebble through the tangled grass and followed the wavering shadow of the castle for a lack of anything better to do. At least now he had some quiet, the field open and empty before him, the windows brimming with light. Sometimes, it did him some good to wander, to think on pointless things and for a moment, avoid his problems. The castle wall curved before him, and he followed, only to see --
He craned his neck to get a better look and stiffened.
How the hell had he...
He tried to convince himself he was mistaken. The sides of the castle looked practically identical. That could be anyone’s window up there -- but it was no use. It was her window, her room and he had known it in an instant, known it better than he‘d ever care to admit.
There was a light glowing within, and he hastily stepped closer to the wall so as not to be seen. It only looked like a single candle or two, though. She’d probably done something stupid like falling asleep and forgetting to snuff it out.
There was no reason to linger.
His feet wouldn’t move, and he hated himself for it.
A little kindness never hurt anyone, Fakir.
The words returned to him, an annoying twitch in the back of his head -- one that he violently shook away. There were a myriad of reasons why kindness was not an option, the simplest one being that she didn’t deserve it. And how could she? She may be his princess, but that didn’t mean the girl wasn’t still an idiot. She’d refused to listen to his warnings, disobeyed direct rules, nearly gotten herself killed --
Her face, twisted in terror as she crumpled to the ground.
The memory rose unbidden, startling him. Why was he wasting his time with thoughts like that? He couldn’t trouble himself with such particulars, even if -- even if it had reminded him of --
-- well, it didn’t matter now.
I understand why you’re doing this, Fakir.
More of Charon’s words, bothering him. Why couldn’t he force them from his mind? The man may have raised him, but that didn’t give him the right to act as though he knew everything there was to know about him. No doubt the man was thinking back once again on those ridiculous things he’d said when he was younger. Why did any that still matter in the least? How could Charon still be placing so much weight on all that nonsense he spouted when he was still a brat, even after so many years?
Even if he...
...he absolutely refused to complete that thought.
With a harsh breath, he turned away and faced the open field instead, the rows of cottages lingering just under the forests’ grasping branches. His own simple home clung onto the edge, its single window dark.
Might as well.
He’d only taken a few slow steps away from the castle, though, when a sound startled him; such a strong rustle that his hand instinctively flew to his side, fingers poised to grasp the hilt of his sword -- only for them grasp air instead. He’d left it behind, he remembered, and instead whipped around to face the direction of the noise. One of the pitiful shrubs near the castle’s edge was trembling, leaves having scattered through the air, as though something had struck it.
He stepped closer, still cautious. The severed leaves lingered in a brief thread of wind then settled at his feet. The shrub didn’t move again. There were no other sounds. Maybe it’d just been in his imagination…
Still, Fakir bent over to see, just to make sure, and stiffened at the sight.
A duck.
Its little body was bent awkwardly against the shrub’s thin branches. Both wings were crumpled at its side, and both eyes were closed, unmoving.
Was it dead?
At a loss, he picked it up and held on carefully, fingertips curled under its head. One of his knuckles nudged the low of its back, but it seemed to have no effect, the little body still against his palms. Maybe it was...
But then the duck trembled, beak opening and closing with a soft breath. He lifted it closer, struggling to see clearly through the darkness, and watched as its eyes fluttered open, a startling shade of blue. It seemed disoriented, pressing both webbed feet tight to his wrists, craning its head back against his fingers so as to look up at the sky, the castle wall beside them. Finally, it turned its bewildered gaze on him, blinked once, then again, and --
“QUACK!”
“H-Hey!” He couldn’t help but stammer as the animal came alive in his hands, wriggling so violently that he was forced to drop it. It stumbled through the grass away from him, covering a few quick feet before finally looking back, blue eyes set aglow by the moonlight.
Was it glaring at him?
Fakir took a step after it, but the duck seemed to bristle at this before quacking again, so loud and stern that he stopped cold; mentally berated himself for taking orders from a duck, of all things.
It turned away once more but tripped, spreading both wings wide so as to catch itself -- only for one to crumple uselessly across the tangled grass. When the bird rose once more, feathers ruffled, Fakir realized there was a swell of smeared blood gathered across the crumpled wing, vibrant amidst all the yellow. It had probably been cut by the shrub’s branches when the duck fell.
To his surprise, though, the duck kept trying to back away from him, with tears, of all things, gathering in the curves of its eyes, matting in its feathers as they dripped. Could ducks even cry?
The animal took two careful steps, but tripped once more, the bloody wing folding against the ground, staining the grass.
It wouldn’t survive like that.
“Hey,” he said again, as gently as he could manage, trying not to scare it. He had a few old bandages somewhere, he was sure. Maybe if he could get the stubborn animal to calm down for a second, he would be able to bind the wound. In the least, it would mean a better chance of living long enough for it to heal.
He stepped closer once more and held out his hands in an attempt to pick the duck up -- but again, it pulled away, what impossibly looked like anger still in its wide eyes. “I’m just trying to -- stop, stop,” he grunted, finally managing to clench his fingertips against its curved back, only for the animal to twist its head around and nip at him, forcing him to release it once more.
This was pointless.
Fakir turned away with a gruff breath, half-convinced that the duck preferred to die a slow, moronic death rather than be saved, half-embarrassed that he’d even chosen to try and argue with it in the first place.
“Fine,” he called, and started off down the slope of the field towards his dark cottage, refusing to linger for even a moment longer -- only to stop when he heard a familiar ‘quack’.
It was softer than before, and he turned back, only to watch with faint surprise as the duck slowly waddled through the grass after him, head bowed. Once it’d finally reached the tip of his shoe, it blinked up at him and lifted the bloody wing into the air as if in quiet defeat, as if to say okay, I do need your help.
What a pitiful sight, he thought, and couldn’t help but smile.
He lifted the duck into the crook of his arm and ran his palm across its back so as to smooth the clumps of ruffled feathers. It uttered one last stern quack in response before deflating against him, obviously exhausted, and with a strange sense of relief, he started off once more, quickly disappearing down the length of the field --
-- barely missing the head of seafoam-colored hair that emerged from the high window, a yawn full in her mouth and her eyes wide as they searched the distant ground.
“Ahiru?”
- - -
In the end, the ball proved to be more than anyone could have hoped for. Tables were easily relieved of their burdens, the gleaming floor scuffed with the imprints of a thousand twirling soles of shoes. The moon wavered above the guests, the lights fell weak, and still, they danced, hopelessly caught in what felt like endlessness, moving with fingertips, pointed toes, and curving, breathless bodies. A true success, the crowds cheered. A perfect night.
No one seemed willing to leave, but eventually, the couples parted, exhausted and happy. With gracious goodbyes, they took their leaves one by one. Soon enough, they’d all disappeared into the aging night, laughter trailing along at their heels like ribbons.
And yet, the beautiful girl in Mytho’s arms kept leading him on with one more step, one more dance. It seemed impossible, but her face was still as fresh and bright as if they’d only just begun, her fluid movements untouched by weariness.
“Are you not tired?” He finally had to ask, unwilling to admit that that he was running short on breath.
She laughed. “Not at all.”
The music faltered, the musicians beginning to slump in their chairs.
“It‘s night,” she continued, oblivious, and curled backwards against his open arm, dipping back so far that the ends of her dark hair traced the floor. “How could anyone ever find themselves tired at night? This is the only time when I ever feel truly...alive.”
He gently pulled her upright once more. With a soft sigh, her fingers slid off his own, and she finally stepped away. He stumbled, both of his own hands still cupped to match her form against them. The music continued on for a few last brave notes, then quickly died, the musicians obviously overjoyed to be finished.
She gathered her feathered skirt in both hands and curtsied deeply once more, her red jewel glinting in the weak light.
“I am honored to have been allowed the pleasure of your company,” she said, and even though her head was bowed, Mytho could still see her smile, a curling line of vibrant red amidst dark waves of hair. “Goodnight.”
And then was she hurrying away, every footstep deafening against the vast, empty floor of the ballroom, so fast that at first, he couldn‘t comprehend it, his body still disoriented by the familiar movements of their dancing. Stranger still, he found himself desperate for her to stay, just for a while, just for one more moment, and called out before he could think better of it.
“Wait!”
She did, coming to a stop at the cusp of the dance floor, turning to face him with wide eyes. “Yes?”
What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest. There had to be something, though, something small, something necessary to ask her of --
“Your name,” he finally managed to say. “I don’t even know your name.”
It was a simple question, he’d thought, but for the first time all night, her expression fluttered into something of bewilderment, pale hands entangling within one another, obvious against her black gown.
“I...I don’t,” she stammered, and laid her long nails against her jewel. Her face softened just as quickly as it had tensed. A smile formed once more. “What would you like it to be?”
He blinked, confused.
“What is the most beautiful name you can think of?” She continued, oblivious. “Let me be known as that.”
He probably should have questioned just why she didn’t have a name of her own to offer, but he found that the words wouldn’t come, replaced by the first name that came to mind.
“Rudelle,” he said, and stepped forward, eager to close the distance between them. “It was my mother’s name.”
Was it wrong, to offer such a thing to a woman he barely knew? For a moment, he thought so, but then she took a breath, both hands rising to clutch against the curve in her chest where her heart lay, and he thought her so lovely in that moment that it did not matter.
“It’s beautiful, it is,” she said, voice quiet, “but I am not worthy to wear the late queen’s name.”
She looked so genuinely distraught by the idea. With a few more steps, he’d finally reached her, and they stood together on the edge of the room, the floor wide and gleaming behind them.
“A piece of it, then,” he offered. “Like Elle. Or Rue.”
She seemed to consider it before looking up to him once more.
“Rue,” she repeated, and the word slid along the red of her lips as they curved, forming a smile once more. “I do like that.”
Mytho smiled too. “You’re Rue, then. That is what I’ll always know you as.”
Her gaze, warm, held him for a moment longer before shifting up, over his head to the windows gathered near the ceiling. The moon was small, so delicately held within them.
“I have to take my leave,” she said, and with a bowed head, she turned away once more, only to be pulled back as he took her hand in his own. He lifted it, pressing his lips to the pale skin just above her knuckles.
“Thank you, Rue,” he said, “for the dance.”
For the briefest of moments, she didn’t move, crimson eyes wide, face flushed with sudden color, and her lips parted as if she meant to say something more -- but then they pursed close once again. With one last nod, she tore her hand from his, spun on her heels and ran. In only an instant, she was lost to him, effortlessly meshing with the darkened hallway.
He looked in the direction she had gone, then back to the ballroom, emptied of its guests, devoid of everything but faint, fleeting memories. Still, if only briefly, Mytho could almost feel the touch of something more, something unfamiliar, heavy in the air around him -- but the moment passed, and with a sigh, he turned to the stairwell and took his own leave.
So it ended.
- - -
The duck was giving him a weird look.
That was silly, Fakir told himself not a moment later, trying to stay focused. The candle’s wick was running low, and melted wax began to pool on his desk. A few more minutes, and there wouldn’t be enough light to see. It was an animal, so it had no idea what it was doing.
Still, as he finished wiping its wing clean of blood, gathered up the tangled bandages in his wet hands and went to work on wrapping the wound, he couldn’t help but keep glancing to its face.
The duck looked startled, almost awe-stricken by him, blue eyes wide and blinking. At first, it had twitched every time he’d reached for it, seeming eager to pull away as he’d dragged water across its matted feathers. But now, it seemed to have gotten used to him, even resting its head on his bent arm as he worked. Its expression still didn‘t waver, though. The animal looked almost as if it was unable to believe what he was doing, that he was actually helping it -- maybe it had some bad experiences with humans in the past? Stranger still was that when it wasn’t staring at him, it seemed to have some unhealthy fixation with the moon, casting apprehensive glances out the window time and time again.
He was thinking too hard about this.
One more weave around the wing, and he pulled the bandage tight, carefully tucking the end in place.
“There,” he said, and wiped both damp palms across his trousers as the duck waddled a few careful steps across the desk, lifting and bending its wing. It quacked nonsensically to itself, almost sounding relieved.
Fakir watched, amused. It hadn’t been as bad of an injury as he’d first thought. A lot of blood, but the cut had been shallow, and it would heal fairly easily. The duck probably wouldn’t be able to fly for a few days, but other than that, it was as good as new.
He stood, wandering over to his bedside. Sure enough, they were still there: a few crusts from the loaf of bread he’d bought the other day, wrapped in cloth. He deposited them at the bird’s feet, and was almost startled by the ravenous way it attacked them, beak open and eager.
“Hungry, eh?“ Sure enough, it cleaned the table in only a matter of moments. “You sure do eat a lot.”
The duck glanced up at him, looked almost affronted by such a comment. He reached out a careful hand to pet it, vaguely wondering if it would even let him. Surprisingly enough, after a moment of hesitation, it did, pressing its head to his palm.
Fakir would never care to admit such a thing to anyone, but it was kind of...nice to have a little company, even if it was just a duck. Sure, he was friendly with the other knights, and visited Charon and Raetsel on occasion, but it still felt as though he spent too much time alone in this simple home, keeping to himself.
He petted it for a moment longer -- was he just imagining things, or had its yellow face flushed with red? A trick of the light, probably. He gathered the duck up in his arms once more, having reached a decision. The animal could sleep here tonight. He’d release it in the morning near the pond.
A folded blanket in the corner made a decent bed, he reasoned, and set the duck down, watching as it nestled itself deep in the folds, large eyes beginning to droop.
It was stupid, he knew, but still he felt compelled to mutter a “good night”, and he found it amusing when the duck quacked in response. The candle was little more than a thin nub in the corner of his table, but just before he snuffed it out, he cast one last glance towards the corner of the room. The duck was looking up, towards the door, then the window, eyes hopelessly focused on the white curve in the sky. Why was it so fascinated with the moon?
He decided it didn‘t matter, and blew the candle out with one short breath.
- - -
A/N: OMGSH, THIS IS SO LATE. I'm sorry! I've been distracted by so many things today. I also apologize for last week -- but now, we're baaaaack, and I hope that this chapter made up for the absence. I'm awfully fond of it. <3
And I...think that's all I have to say, other than GOOD GOSH THIS IS LATE AND I FEEL AWFUL ABOUT IT. XD;
Reviews, as always, are really appreciated! New chapter next week~!
~
Rating: PG-13/T
Chapter Four ~ 7213 words. [Prologue] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] [Chapter Three]
Summary: The ball begins, and a newcomer has unforeseen effects on the festivites. Meanwhile, Ahiru has an interesting experience of her own.
In retrospect, Mytho thought, it would have probably been a better idea to tell the arriving guests of Ahiru’s absence right at the start. The whole point of the ball, after all, had been to introduce her to the people of the land. That was what had been printed on the invitations, and that was what the crowd had been rightfully expecting. It just hadn’t seemed like a very pressing issue at the time, really.
Now, as the prince stared out into a sea of confused and unhappy faces, he realized he’d made a grave mistake.
“Is she sick?” Someone called out, sounding worried.
“She was only here for a moment,” a woman near the front of the crowd complained. “No one saw her for more than a second or two! Not even a royal dance!”
“You’re not trying to hide her away, are you? Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Mytho insisted for the fifth time in a row, raising his hands as a new roar of voices vibrated through the crowd. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all! The princess merely has a -- a severe allergy to moonlight. She wanted to stay, but her condition is serious, I assure you.”
More murmuring. More displeased faces. A few people near the fringes of the crowd drifted away, huffing in their stride back to the darkened exits.
“Is there even such a thing?” An older gentleman scoffed, just before he took his wife by the arm and led her away as well. Similar dissent swelled throughout the room, and the prince fought down a sigh.
“It doesn’t mean the ball has to end,” he weakly offered, but the ballroom was already filled to the brim with the sound of clattering heels, of swishing fabric and disappointed sighs as the crowd thinned. Even the musicians’ cheerful tune faltered and came to a final halt as they set their instruments aside.
Mytho found himself at a loss. He looked to the guards at each doorway and to the knights scattered amidst the townspeople for some sort of assistance, but they all looked just as bewildered as he felt. He couldn’t make them all stay, he knew, but it just couldn’t end on such a horrible note! What could...
“My, how disappointing.”
His desperate thoughts dwindled away as an unfamiliar voice cut through all the commotion. A disturbance vibrated through the crowd, and countless forms shifted, stepping away to make room for an approaching figure. It must have been whoever had spoken up, Mytho assumed, craning his neck to see. He couldn’t glimpse the new arrival, though, until the final few men and women lingering near him turned to look, and were promptly driven out of the way by the flourish of a feathered skirt, a pale hand beckoning them back -- followed by the woman to whom both belonged to.
She moved as though walking through water, each step slow and fluid, feet twisting around one another as they traced a meandering line into the center of the room. Her dress, an endless black, fluttered with every movement, edges as soft and uneven as feathers. Waves of dark hair framed her pale face, and when she looked up at last, the light caught in her eyes, irises as red as the jewel she wore in the center of her chest.
The crowd fell quiet, with those who had remained gathering together to watch as the woman approached the prince. Her steps were fast and brazen, only pausing when she was but a few breaths away. Mytho wasn’t sure what to think, but met her gaze when she looked to him, lips curled in the softest of smiles.
She took up the skirt of her gown in both hands and curtsied, so deeply that her body seemed painted along the floor for the longest of moments. She stood then, and turned to face the crowd.
“How very disappointing,” she spoke, and her voice was strong, echoing within the vast length of the room like a melody newly born. “This ball is quite lovely, and yet, everyone chooses to leave before it’s even begun. Is this how you treat your beloved prince? To be honest, I find it disrespectful.”
No one spoke. Her smile deepened. Her arms rose into the air, splayed towards the crowd, as though beckoning for an answer.
“Is all of this discourse taking place because a simple princess is missing?”
Still, no sound. Men and women glanced to one another, unsure of what to make of this woman, of these words. Still, no one could look away for long, and every gaze in the room watched as her eyes fluttered close, a pleasing laugh trembling along the curve of her lips.
“So be it,” she drawled, and twirled her body in a graceful circle. “I will be your princess for the evening. Surely you all can pretend I am the one you wished to see, can’t you? Think of it as a substitute, as filling in.”
She turned to the musicians, then, who had remained still through her words, and gestured for them to pick up their instruments.
“Play, won’t you? The silence is deafening.”
The men looked to one another, and after a moment, shrugged and did as she asked. Music, slow and cautious, swelled within the ballroom. Still, the crowd hesitated to move, glancing to others for guidance.
The woman in black spun around to face Mytho once more. In the span of a moment, she had closed the distance between them. He realized she was close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough for him to see each gentle curl of her hair and curve of her red smile. Close enough to feel on his face every breath she took.
Needless to say, he could hardly remember his own name at that moment.
She held out an elegant hand towards him, light catching along her long nails.
“Won’t you dance with me, your highness?”
Her voice was soft. Her gaze didn’t waver and held to him without fail. She was beautiful, he thought without meaning to, and found himself unable to come up with one decent reason why he should refuse her.
So he didn’t.
“Of course.” He reached out to her, resting his fingertips against the lines of her palm. She gripped them at once, a sharp smile betraying her gentler features, and pulled him closer. All at once, they took hold of the other, his shoulder, her waist, their hands, high in the air, trembling against one another.
The musicians seemed to have hit their stride, a beautiful tune flooding through the room. People throughout the crowd murmured, some disapproving, some entranced. “Do not mind them,” she whispered against the curve of Mytho’s shoulder when he hesitated, touching her long nails to his face. “Look at only me.”
He did, and they danced.
She moved like air against his hands. He was barely leading her at all, Mytho realized, instead merely following as she stepped, swayed, and spun with such grace that he found himself short of breath. The dissent in the crowd was melting away, replaced with gasping words of praise and wonder.
He twirled her in a slow circle, and instead of clutching his shoulder once more, she laid her palm flat against his chest. “Your heartbeat is quickening,” she commented, lips thick with a smirk. “Do I make you nervous, prince?”
“N-Not at all,” he stammered, which was probably an answer enough in itself -- but then she laughed, and soon, he was laughing as well, irrationally unable to think of a happier moment in his life before this one. Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm. Their gazes did not waver, and they danced still.
The crowd separated; slowly at first, then faster and faster. Couples formed, splayed along the immense length of the floor in careful circles. Women curtsied. Men bowed. Hands were offered, then taken, and a thousand skirts swept against a thousand pairs of twirling legs as the dancing began.
Awkwardness lingered, but as nervous patrons turned to look upon the prince and his lady -- his princess, they thought in breathless admiration, only after a moment remembering to add ’for the evening’ -- in the center, they found such grace reassuring, and soon enough, the ball was alive with music and movement, all thoughts of anyone missing from the festivities soundly erased.
- - -
She was dancing. Yes, dancing with the prince, her perfect prince who held her close, spun her around and around and around until she could barely find a breath to call her own. She felt dizzy, so dizzy, and she thought to call his name, to ask him to stop for just a moment, but then his warm hands left her and she was stumbling away, unable to regain her balance. Her feet didn’t seem to work. Why weren’t they working?
She lifted her dress, but saw no ankles, no toes -- just two webbed feet, an ugly orange amidst all the beauty of her gown. That wasn’t right. These weren’t hers, they had to be someone else’s, had to be, she insisted, but still they remained. With a sharp breath, she yanked her skirt as far down as it would stretch, desperate to hide them away -- but then there were feathers on her arms, she realized, thick and yellow. Go away, she screamed, trying to shake them off, hot tears welling up in her eyes, but they were stuck, erasing her skin as if it was nothing more than a stray mark of paint. It wasn’t fair. How could she dance with webbed feet and yellow wings?
She thought to cry out, but then music flooded the room, loud and graceless, and countless forms were moving, dancing around her. No, not people, they were birds, they were ravens, dancing in irrational circles, reaching ragged claws out to drag her in. No, she cried, pulling away. No!
The music swelled to a grand pitch, and she pressed both wings to her ears, desperate to shut it out. It was too loud, too loud, TOO LOUD, TOO -- CLANG!
With a startled shriek, Ahiru hit the floor hard, roused to sudden consciousness.
She didn’t move for a moment, breathing hard against the worn rug while caught up in the fading fringes of her dream -- dancing, feathers, ravens, music. A few more quiet seconds passed, and the images finally faded away, replaced by innocent confusion. What time was it? Was it morning already?
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing darkness barely brightened by candlelight. With a groan, she lifted her head. In the open window, a curved moon still hung in the sky.
Ahiru blinked. But if it was still night, wouldn’t that mean --
She lifted up one arm out from under her body and held it up to her face. Her vision was finally clearing and adjusting to the darkness, enough to see that it wasn’t an arm at all, but a wing -- yellow, reluctantly familiar.
Still a duck.
With a sigh, she rose up unsteadily on her webbed feet and glanced around the room. Uzura was fast asleep on the floor, drumsticks still clutched in both little hands, and above her on the chair, Edel’s curved form sat slumped against the cushions, gently snoring. That was right, Ahiru remembered: they had stayed to keep her company. They had been listening to the music from the ball below...
The ball. Was it still going on? She listened.
Nothing, save for the gentle rustling of the wind.
A familiar sort of sadness sunk in as she buried her beak in both folded wings. All the partygoers had surely been furious to discover that she‘d up and left without so much as a single dance. They’d surely shouted, questioning the explanation for her absence -- was being allergic to moonlight even possible? -- and eventually stormed out, furious with their disgrace of a princess for disappointing them. All of those grand decorations and wonderful outfits, wasted.
Maybe she should have stayed, Ahiru thought, quacking out a weak laugh. She would have to tell everyone soon enough. Maybe it would have been better to just let them all watch her change and watch as Mytho danced with a duck, of all things. What a silly thought!
Her laugh died away just as quickly as it emerged, the bedroom feeling much too dark and lonely at that moment.
What a silly thought...
With one last sigh, she settled onto the rug and rested her head against Edel’s warm leg, drawing her wings over her body as though they were a blanket. No reason to dwell on it any longer. The ball was over and the damage was done. Nothing to do now but sleep, she thought, and allowed her eyes to droop closed once more --
-- only to be thrust haphazardly into the air once more by a sudden screech of music.
“QUUUUACK!” She couldn‘t help but cry out, wings desperately flapping in fear. Uzura murmured something indistinguishable into her curled hands. Edel shifted then fell still once more. Ahiru didn’t want to wake them, so she struggled to calm herself as she waddled in a frantic circle, but --- what was that!?
It had come from outside, she realized, but before Ahiru had even fully turned to look, another, calmer sound drifted into the room. Music?
Sure enough, it was a song, just begun -- gentle at first, but quickly swelling to a fevered pitch. A song meant for a waltz, she thought, waddling closer to the window. Wasn’t the ball over? Hadn’t everyone gone home?
It took some maneuvering - traveling to even the simplest of places was difficult in this form, she lamented -- but with a few clumsy hops across the length of her bed, she managed to flap her way to the stone windowsill.
It was a long way down, the ground little more than a blur of darkened brown and green below. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her for a moment, but she shook it away, looking instead to the elegant pools of light further down the field, cast by the grand windows of the ballroom. Countless dark shadows swayed in and out of view, raised hands, flourishing skirts obvious against the light. The music continued without a single pause, leading them on.
The ball hadn’t stopped at all; she had merely woken between songs. Apparently, they hadn’t found her absence distressing enough to stop altogether.
She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
Disappointed!? She stiffened at once, overcome with guilt. What was the matter with her? Of course they should have still had the ball! In fact, she hoped everyone was having lots of fun.
Still, as Ahiru watched the shadows twirl along the field, she found herself wishing more than anything that she could have taken part -- that she could see it, if only for a moment.
Maybe...
An idea struck, and she glanced up, taking note of the hint of roof sloping above her. There were a few windows up there, she remembered. She’d noticed them time and time again during her various practices within the ballroom -- round, stain-glassed, and so far away that they looked almost miniature, as if meant for mice to peer through. The ballroom was close to her room, so that had to mean they were only a little further up the roof, and then she could see, just for a second...
Ahiru had never been very good at flying, and briefly weighed her chances as she peered up at the ledge, then took a long, hard look down at the ground. It wasn’t that far away, she told herself, and shook all her hesitation away, spreading both wings wide.
Luck didn‘t seem to take pity on her, though. She’d barely left the ledge when she found herself thrown off-balance by an ill burst of wind, and she faltered dangerously in the open air for a moment before managing to cling the tips of her wings around the stone ledge. With a determined grunt and a few fervent prayers, she managed to drag her little body up. She finally stood on the sloped edge of the roof, breathless, the sky full and open above her.
And there were the windows, round pools of yellow light brimming against all the darkened stone of the castle. One waddling sprint up the steep incline, and she was there, beak pressed to the glass as she peered inside, unable to wait a moment longer.
It was all a colorful blur: couples poised in sweeping circles, clutched in one another’s arms as the music led their feet along, one, two, three, step. The tune flourished, and in one grand motion, the men lifted their ladies into the air and twirled them around, faces riddled with smiles all the while.
She found herself searching the crowd for Mytho. She didn’t see him around the tables, or watching from off to the side as a handful of others were. Had he chosen to dance after all?
Finally, she glimpsed him, a gasp of white amidst all the swirling color. He was near the middle of the circling couples, stepping and turning in perfect rhythm, moving closer to…
Who was that?
She had never seen the girl in Mytho’s arms before: soft face framed by dark hair, form little more than a curve of black against him. Ahiru watched with wide eyes as he took the stranger by the waist and twirled her high in the air, her red lips parting, mirroring his own open mouth. After a moment, she recognized it that they were both laughing.
Ahiru would be lying if she pretended the knot forming deep in her chest was anything other than jealousy.
It was silly, she knew. After all, she’d practically ordered Mytho to dance without her, to have fun even though she couldn’t be there, but still -- as she watched him gently lower his beautiful partner back to the ground and watched the way she settled into his arms, her own spread high like elegant wings -- Ahiru found herself giving into a burst of childish anger, if only for a moment.
It just wasn’t fair. That was supposed to be her down there, her and not some stranger, and she knew that it was only one dance, one ball, one night that wouldn’t mean anything in the morning -- but still! She was the one meant to be down there. She would have been down there, if not for the curse...
Her thought trailed off as Mytho arched his arm high, the girl’s long fingers raking down his palm as she spun away. It was the same move he had tried with her earlier that day, Ahiru remembered, the memory cropping up in the back of her mind: the empty ballroom floor, the whirling dizziness, her two feet, unable to complete the step, tripping over his innocent foot instead.
She watched. The girl’s dress fluttered around her as she turned, once, twice, three times. Her feet twisted and curled against one another as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Another breath, and she was back in his arms -- flawless.
She didn’t trip, or step on his feet, or look really silly. She was a wonderful dancer.
Ahiru found herself able to watch for only little longer; closed her eyes with a sigh. It had been a mistake to come and watch, she thought, and leaned her head against the pane --
-- only to quack in terror as the glass creaked and shifted out of place due to her weight. She yanked her wings upright, webbed feet stumbling backwards in a desperate effort not to crash right through the colored pane.
Unfortunately, by the time Ahiru realized just how steep the roof beneath her was, she was practically rolling, reduced to a ruffled ball of feathers and shrieking quacks. She dragged her wings across the stone, irrationally thinking they were hands, able to latch on -- but nothing helped.
The roof disappeared beneath her, and then she was falling, falling straight through the air, too shocked to even try and save herself, to even cry out. Her wings crumpled against her body, useless. The night sky shimmered above her, a million stars spiraling in dizzying fashions, growing farther and farther and farther away until --
-- the sudden stop.
She blinked, once, twice, her body arched in strange ways against whatever she’d hit. Her vision blurred; her thoughts were muddled. Green, there was green all around, like trees, like leaves, swallowing her up, and something hurt, she’d been hurt, somewhere, somehow, blood, she could smell blood, what now, how would she get back, her room was back up there, up at her window, up in the sky, miles and miles and miles away ---
Her thoughts trickled away just as quickly as they‘d seeped in, darkness overtaking her. The stars trembled in her drooping eyes, a thousand gems along the blackest of gowns. She gasped for one last breath, and was gone.
- - -
What a waste of time.
Fakir raked a stiff hand through his hair as he walked, the curving walls of the castle monstrous above him. He’d been circling for what felt like hours, glancing to open windows, watching the darkened trees tremble and twist in the wind. He wasn’t sure just where he was meaning to go -- only that he couldn’t have handled one more minute trapped in that deafening nightmare they were calling a ball.
He hadn’t even wanted to attend in the first place, but rather he had purposefully stayed within his quarters as the other knights gathered, in the hopes his absence would be overlooked. He should have realized that Charon, as quietly eager as ever, would go out of his way to check on him, to sternly inform him that ‘your sense of duty seems to be wavering’ and ‘your lord and lady expect your support’ and so many other noble, never-ending statements that eventually, he found himself forced to relent with a gritted ‘fine’.
The man had even managed to coerce him into dancing -- just how that had happened, he couldn’t remember. Apparently, his guardian for the past fifteen years had noticed a cluster of giggling girls lingering nearby as the music began and mentioned how it ‘couldn’t hurt his mood’ to humor a few of them with a quick waltz. He had begged to differ, but once again found himself reluctantly acquiescing after a handful of stern refusals, too tired, too distracted to fight the point for long.
That had ended quickly, though. He barely lasted through two songs, and even that was a miracle, what with those insufferable twits and their iron grips and incessant giggling.
In truth, the only reason he’d even lingered in the ballroom for as long as he did was due to a certain strange figure in the center of the room: the woman in black, who seemed permanently entangled in Mytho‘s arms. Over the years, Fakir had come to recognize mostly every face in town, if only faintly. After all, there were only so many that could live in such a small area, and newcomers and travelers were an impossibility, due to painfully obvious reasons. But that girl, he had thought -- following her twirling form across the vast length of the floor and back -- she was a complete stranger to him. To everyone, it seemed.
Fakir couldn‘t help but find her suspicious, and had wondered, hand itching for the hilt of his sword, if she meant to harm Mytho, to even stab him clean through as the two moved closer again and again. She even looked like a raven, with her dark hair, her red eyes, her gown, looking as if made from black feathers.
He’d continued to watch, feeling so sure of her intentions, but song after song after song slipped by, and the two kept dancing. A smile never left the stranger’s face, laughing with each careful step, each simple twirl, arms drawn high and free as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Harmless, he finally had to admit. Just another bothersome girl desperate for attention.
He was through with it, then. All the noise had given him a headache, and he’d managed to slip out between songs without anyone bothering him with questions as to why.
So here he was.
Fakir kicked a pebble through the tangled grass and followed the wavering shadow of the castle for a lack of anything better to do. At least now he had some quiet, the field open and empty before him, the windows brimming with light. Sometimes, it did him some good to wander, to think on pointless things and for a moment, avoid his problems. The castle wall curved before him, and he followed, only to see --
He craned his neck to get a better look and stiffened.
How the hell had he...
He tried to convince himself he was mistaken. The sides of the castle looked practically identical. That could be anyone’s window up there -- but it was no use. It was her window, her room and he had known it in an instant, known it better than he‘d ever care to admit.
There was a light glowing within, and he hastily stepped closer to the wall so as not to be seen. It only looked like a single candle or two, though. She’d probably done something stupid like falling asleep and forgetting to snuff it out.
There was no reason to linger.
His feet wouldn’t move, and he hated himself for it.
A little kindness never hurt anyone, Fakir.
The words returned to him, an annoying twitch in the back of his head -- one that he violently shook away. There were a myriad of reasons why kindness was not an option, the simplest one being that she didn’t deserve it. And how could she? She may be his princess, but that didn’t mean the girl wasn’t still an idiot. She’d refused to listen to his warnings, disobeyed direct rules, nearly gotten herself killed --
Her face, twisted in terror as she crumpled to the ground.
The memory rose unbidden, startling him. Why was he wasting his time with thoughts like that? He couldn’t trouble himself with such particulars, even if -- even if it had reminded him of --
-- well, it didn’t matter now.
I understand why you’re doing this, Fakir.
More of Charon’s words, bothering him. Why couldn’t he force them from his mind? The man may have raised him, but that didn’t give him the right to act as though he knew everything there was to know about him. No doubt the man was thinking back once again on those ridiculous things he’d said when he was younger. Why did any that still matter in the least? How could Charon still be placing so much weight on all that nonsense he spouted when he was still a brat, even after so many years?
Even if he...
...he absolutely refused to complete that thought.
With a harsh breath, he turned away and faced the open field instead, the rows of cottages lingering just under the forests’ grasping branches. His own simple home clung onto the edge, its single window dark.
Might as well.
He’d only taken a few slow steps away from the castle, though, when a sound startled him; such a strong rustle that his hand instinctively flew to his side, fingers poised to grasp the hilt of his sword -- only for them grasp air instead. He’d left it behind, he remembered, and instead whipped around to face the direction of the noise. One of the pitiful shrubs near the castle’s edge was trembling, leaves having scattered through the air, as though something had struck it.
He stepped closer, still cautious. The severed leaves lingered in a brief thread of wind then settled at his feet. The shrub didn’t move again. There were no other sounds. Maybe it’d just been in his imagination…
Still, Fakir bent over to see, just to make sure, and stiffened at the sight.
A duck.
Its little body was bent awkwardly against the shrub’s thin branches. Both wings were crumpled at its side, and both eyes were closed, unmoving.
Was it dead?
At a loss, he picked it up and held on carefully, fingertips curled under its head. One of his knuckles nudged the low of its back, but it seemed to have no effect, the little body still against his palms. Maybe it was...
But then the duck trembled, beak opening and closing with a soft breath. He lifted it closer, struggling to see clearly through the darkness, and watched as its eyes fluttered open, a startling shade of blue. It seemed disoriented, pressing both webbed feet tight to his wrists, craning its head back against his fingers so as to look up at the sky, the castle wall beside them. Finally, it turned its bewildered gaze on him, blinked once, then again, and --
“QUACK!”
“H-Hey!” He couldn’t help but stammer as the animal came alive in his hands, wriggling so violently that he was forced to drop it. It stumbled through the grass away from him, covering a few quick feet before finally looking back, blue eyes set aglow by the moonlight.
Was it glaring at him?
Fakir took a step after it, but the duck seemed to bristle at this before quacking again, so loud and stern that he stopped cold; mentally berated himself for taking orders from a duck, of all things.
It turned away once more but tripped, spreading both wings wide so as to catch itself -- only for one to crumple uselessly across the tangled grass. When the bird rose once more, feathers ruffled, Fakir realized there was a swell of smeared blood gathered across the crumpled wing, vibrant amidst all the yellow. It had probably been cut by the shrub’s branches when the duck fell.
To his surprise, though, the duck kept trying to back away from him, with tears, of all things, gathering in the curves of its eyes, matting in its feathers as they dripped. Could ducks even cry?
The animal took two careful steps, but tripped once more, the bloody wing folding against the ground, staining the grass.
It wouldn’t survive like that.
“Hey,” he said again, as gently as he could manage, trying not to scare it. He had a few old bandages somewhere, he was sure. Maybe if he could get the stubborn animal to calm down for a second, he would be able to bind the wound. In the least, it would mean a better chance of living long enough for it to heal.
He stepped closer once more and held out his hands in an attempt to pick the duck up -- but again, it pulled away, what impossibly looked like anger still in its wide eyes. “I’m just trying to -- stop, stop,” he grunted, finally managing to clench his fingertips against its curved back, only for the animal to twist its head around and nip at him, forcing him to release it once more.
This was pointless.
Fakir turned away with a gruff breath, half-convinced that the duck preferred to die a slow, moronic death rather than be saved, half-embarrassed that he’d even chosen to try and argue with it in the first place.
“Fine,” he called, and started off down the slope of the field towards his dark cottage, refusing to linger for even a moment longer -- only to stop when he heard a familiar ‘quack’.
It was softer than before, and he turned back, only to watch with faint surprise as the duck slowly waddled through the grass after him, head bowed. Once it’d finally reached the tip of his shoe, it blinked up at him and lifted the bloody wing into the air as if in quiet defeat, as if to say okay, I do need your help.
What a pitiful sight, he thought, and couldn’t help but smile.
He lifted the duck into the crook of his arm and ran his palm across its back so as to smooth the clumps of ruffled feathers. It uttered one last stern quack in response before deflating against him, obviously exhausted, and with a strange sense of relief, he started off once more, quickly disappearing down the length of the field --
-- barely missing the head of seafoam-colored hair that emerged from the high window, a yawn full in her mouth and her eyes wide as they searched the distant ground.
“Ahiru?”
- - -
In the end, the ball proved to be more than anyone could have hoped for. Tables were easily relieved of their burdens, the gleaming floor scuffed with the imprints of a thousand twirling soles of shoes. The moon wavered above the guests, the lights fell weak, and still, they danced, hopelessly caught in what felt like endlessness, moving with fingertips, pointed toes, and curving, breathless bodies. A true success, the crowds cheered. A perfect night.
No one seemed willing to leave, but eventually, the couples parted, exhausted and happy. With gracious goodbyes, they took their leaves one by one. Soon enough, they’d all disappeared into the aging night, laughter trailing along at their heels like ribbons.
And yet, the beautiful girl in Mytho’s arms kept leading him on with one more step, one more dance. It seemed impossible, but her face was still as fresh and bright as if they’d only just begun, her fluid movements untouched by weariness.
“Are you not tired?” He finally had to ask, unwilling to admit that that he was running short on breath.
She laughed. “Not at all.”
The music faltered, the musicians beginning to slump in their chairs.
“It‘s night,” she continued, oblivious, and curled backwards against his open arm, dipping back so far that the ends of her dark hair traced the floor. “How could anyone ever find themselves tired at night? This is the only time when I ever feel truly...alive.”
He gently pulled her upright once more. With a soft sigh, her fingers slid off his own, and she finally stepped away. He stumbled, both of his own hands still cupped to match her form against them. The music continued on for a few last brave notes, then quickly died, the musicians obviously overjoyed to be finished.
She gathered her feathered skirt in both hands and curtsied deeply once more, her red jewel glinting in the weak light.
“I am honored to have been allowed the pleasure of your company,” she said, and even though her head was bowed, Mytho could still see her smile, a curling line of vibrant red amidst dark waves of hair. “Goodnight.”
And then was she hurrying away, every footstep deafening against the vast, empty floor of the ballroom, so fast that at first, he couldn‘t comprehend it, his body still disoriented by the familiar movements of their dancing. Stranger still, he found himself desperate for her to stay, just for a while, just for one more moment, and called out before he could think better of it.
“Wait!”
She did, coming to a stop at the cusp of the dance floor, turning to face him with wide eyes. “Yes?”
What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest. There had to be something, though, something small, something necessary to ask her of --
“Your name,” he finally managed to say. “I don’t even know your name.”
It was a simple question, he’d thought, but for the first time all night, her expression fluttered into something of bewilderment, pale hands entangling within one another, obvious against her black gown.
“I...I don’t,” she stammered, and laid her long nails against her jewel. Her face softened just as quickly as it had tensed. A smile formed once more. “What would you like it to be?”
He blinked, confused.
“What is the most beautiful name you can think of?” She continued, oblivious. “Let me be known as that.”
He probably should have questioned just why she didn’t have a name of her own to offer, but he found that the words wouldn’t come, replaced by the first name that came to mind.
“Rudelle,” he said, and stepped forward, eager to close the distance between them. “It was my mother’s name.”
Was it wrong, to offer such a thing to a woman he barely knew? For a moment, he thought so, but then she took a breath, both hands rising to clutch against the curve in her chest where her heart lay, and he thought her so lovely in that moment that it did not matter.
“It’s beautiful, it is,” she said, voice quiet, “but I am not worthy to wear the late queen’s name.”
She looked so genuinely distraught by the idea. With a few more steps, he’d finally reached her, and they stood together on the edge of the room, the floor wide and gleaming behind them.
“A piece of it, then,” he offered. “Like Elle. Or Rue.”
She seemed to consider it before looking up to him once more.
“Rue,” she repeated, and the word slid along the red of her lips as they curved, forming a smile once more. “I do like that.”
Mytho smiled too. “You’re Rue, then. That is what I’ll always know you as.”
Her gaze, warm, held him for a moment longer before shifting up, over his head to the windows gathered near the ceiling. The moon was small, so delicately held within them.
“I have to take my leave,” she said, and with a bowed head, she turned away once more, only to be pulled back as he took her hand in his own. He lifted it, pressing his lips to the pale skin just above her knuckles.
“Thank you, Rue,” he said, “for the dance.”
For the briefest of moments, she didn’t move, crimson eyes wide, face flushed with sudden color, and her lips parted as if she meant to say something more -- but then they pursed close once again. With one last nod, she tore her hand from his, spun on her heels and ran. In only an instant, she was lost to him, effortlessly meshing with the darkened hallway.
He looked in the direction she had gone, then back to the ballroom, emptied of its guests, devoid of everything but faint, fleeting memories. Still, if only briefly, Mytho could almost feel the touch of something more, something unfamiliar, heavy in the air around him -- but the moment passed, and with a sigh, he turned to the stairwell and took his own leave.
So it ended.
- - -
The duck was giving him a weird look.
That was silly, Fakir told himself not a moment later, trying to stay focused. The candle’s wick was running low, and melted wax began to pool on his desk. A few more minutes, and there wouldn’t be enough light to see. It was an animal, so it had no idea what it was doing.
Still, as he finished wiping its wing clean of blood, gathered up the tangled bandages in his wet hands and went to work on wrapping the wound, he couldn’t help but keep glancing to its face.
The duck looked startled, almost awe-stricken by him, blue eyes wide and blinking. At first, it had twitched every time he’d reached for it, seeming eager to pull away as he’d dragged water across its matted feathers. But now, it seemed to have gotten used to him, even resting its head on his bent arm as he worked. Its expression still didn‘t waver, though. The animal looked almost as if it was unable to believe what he was doing, that he was actually helping it -- maybe it had some bad experiences with humans in the past? Stranger still was that when it wasn’t staring at him, it seemed to have some unhealthy fixation with the moon, casting apprehensive glances out the window time and time again.
He was thinking too hard about this.
One more weave around the wing, and he pulled the bandage tight, carefully tucking the end in place.
“There,” he said, and wiped both damp palms across his trousers as the duck waddled a few careful steps across the desk, lifting and bending its wing. It quacked nonsensically to itself, almost sounding relieved.
Fakir watched, amused. It hadn’t been as bad of an injury as he’d first thought. A lot of blood, but the cut had been shallow, and it would heal fairly easily. The duck probably wouldn’t be able to fly for a few days, but other than that, it was as good as new.
He stood, wandering over to his bedside. Sure enough, they were still there: a few crusts from the loaf of bread he’d bought the other day, wrapped in cloth. He deposited them at the bird’s feet, and was almost startled by the ravenous way it attacked them, beak open and eager.
“Hungry, eh?“ Sure enough, it cleaned the table in only a matter of moments. “You sure do eat a lot.”
The duck glanced up at him, looked almost affronted by such a comment. He reached out a careful hand to pet it, vaguely wondering if it would even let him. Surprisingly enough, after a moment of hesitation, it did, pressing its head to his palm.
Fakir would never care to admit such a thing to anyone, but it was kind of...nice to have a little company, even if it was just a duck. Sure, he was friendly with the other knights, and visited Charon and Raetsel on occasion, but it still felt as though he spent too much time alone in this simple home, keeping to himself.
He petted it for a moment longer -- was he just imagining things, or had its yellow face flushed with red? A trick of the light, probably. He gathered the duck up in his arms once more, having reached a decision. The animal could sleep here tonight. He’d release it in the morning near the pond.
A folded blanket in the corner made a decent bed, he reasoned, and set the duck down, watching as it nestled itself deep in the folds, large eyes beginning to droop.
It was stupid, he knew, but still he felt compelled to mutter a “good night”, and he found it amusing when the duck quacked in response. The candle was little more than a thin nub in the corner of his table, but just before he snuffed it out, he cast one last glance towards the corner of the room. The duck was looking up, towards the door, then the window, eyes hopelessly focused on the white curve in the sky. Why was it so fascinated with the moon?
He decided it didn‘t matter, and blew the candle out with one short breath.
- - -
A/N: OMGSH, THIS IS SO LATE. I'm sorry! I've been distracted by so many things today. I also apologize for last week -- but now, we're baaaaack, and I hope that this chapter made up for the absence. I'm awfully fond of it. <3
And I...think that's all I have to say, other than GOOD GOSH THIS IS LATE AND I FEEL AWFUL ABOUT IT. XD;
Reviews, as always, are really appreciated! New chapter next week~!
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