(no subject)

[fairytaleknight]

[OOM: Between The Spinners, Part 1 and The Spinners, Part 2, both previously posted:

Once upon a time there was a king with twelve beautiful daughters. Every night the king locked his daughters up in one small room with one small door. But every morning the princesses' shoes were worn through, as if the princesses had danced in them all night. The king wondered where his daughters went in the night. He commanded that any man who could find their dancing-hall within three days and three nights would marry a princess and become the new king. Any man who failed in that time would be put to death.

I wonder, if he finds the dancing-hall in time, what else will the man find?]

Fakir stumbles through the front door, too drained to care that he's at Milliways rather than his home at the Goldkrone smithy. Three minutes later, he's sound asleep on a couch by the fireplace. Nothing short of another allpocalypse will disturb him now.

--

After eight dreamless hours, Fakir's hunger wakes him. He pushes his tangled hair out of his eyes and straightens his wrinkled shirt. I need a bath. But after three days fasting, food takes priority.

--

[Hello, Milliways! It's been too long. Catch me at aim: manuscriptgeek.]

Comments

[herr_bookman]

After waking up himself from the electric shock he'd received, Autor follows Fakir into Milliways. The boy means to confront him immediately, but Fakir collapses on the couch.

Autor sets up camp at a table within view, mainlining super-caffeinated tea and fighting sleep. It's two am in Goldkrone time, and he skipped sleep entirely on the first night of the ritual. Eventually, his body can't take it, and his head thunks down on the table.

He wakes with a gasp a couple of hours later--right about when Fakir does, thankfully. Autor straightens his blazer and heads over to Fakir's couch. "So who was she?" he asks, dispensing with the usual pleasantries.

[fairytaleknight]

When Autor arrives, Fakir is in the middle of a conversation with a waitrat. He ignores Autor and continues ordering. "Orange juice, please. A glass of water, a loaf of fresh bread, and a wedge of good cheese. Thank you."

When the rat scurries off, Fakir answers, "Who?"

It's in the stories, and Fakir's seen it for himself; people don't always recognize Princess Tutu. Until he knows what Autor saw, he isn't answering this question. And even then -- She doesn't belong to you.

[herr_bookman]

"The ballerina who was cradling you when I came to," Autor says, creasing his brow fiercely. "The redhead who... May have been a giant swan. Or something."

I did see her... Right?

[fairytaleknight]

Autor's read The Prince and the Raven. He has all the information that he needs to identify a ballerina who may also have been a giant swan.

Fakir is certainly not going to do Autor's work for him before he's even eaten breakfast.

"Why do you care?"

[herr_bookman]

Why are you protecting her?

"Some random ballerina--How well do you know her?" Autor asks, and then the gears in his head start shifting.

Ballerinas. Swans. 'She is not the same Princess Tutu who recently visited Prince Siegfried,' Lohengrin had told him.

"Oh, my gosh," Autor whispers, and rests a hand on his cheek. "That's Princess Tutu. Isn't it?"

But... If Princess Tutu was the one holding him... Oh. Oh, no.

The Story's chosen him.

[fairytaleknight]

There really is no point denying it. Fakir moves his head in the smallest nod.

Fortunately, perhaps for them both, Fakir's breakfast arrives at that point. Fakir turns his attention to the orange juice. He counts off ten seconds between each swallow, to help him resist the temptation to gulp. Then he slices the bread and cheese.

Breakfast really is the most important thing after a three-day fast. The convenient distraction from the topic of Princess Tutu is only a side benefit.

[herr_bookman]

Recognizing Fakir's need for food after his ordeal, Autor pulls up a chair to wait--and stew on how Fakir knows Princess Tutu.

How long? Why hasn't she manifested to me? What... What is my role here? he thinks desperately, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The boy folds his arms to keep from fidgeting. What did the oak tree tell him? He clearly heard more than a sigh! What if... Is he a Spinner, then? What does that make me?

"You might need more than that," he says eventually--and a little bitterly.

[halfemptyglasses]

The smell of a nearby feast likely isn't helping. The red meat and grease of a double cheeseburger and onion rings weighs down the air with its aroma, the fat cut just slightly by the tang of the vinaigrette of the salad.

The girl eating the food, however, spots Fakir when he moves from the couch. She looks up mid-sip of her iced tea, taking his uniform and exhaustion into account.

Is this the boy Autor was talking about?

[fairytaleknight]

The smell of the cheeseburger isn't so bad by the time Fakir leaves the couch. He's already eaten one light meal; his feet and joints still hurt, but he's less shaky than he was.

Fakir nods, acknowledging the girl.

[halfemptyglasses]

Should she say anything? It's not really her place to, but he did acknowledge her. How does that keep happening? But now she's on the spot, not thinking that her choice in position had put her in it.

She ends up going, "Ah, a-are you hungry?"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir considers the rival merits of going upstairs to bathe and staying down here to eat more.
Food is tempting, and now that he's standing up, he'd like some painkillers, too.

The girl's stutter reminds him of Duck, when she used to be annoying.

He might as well join her, for a few minutes, anyway. "A little. I'll get my own food." Whatever the girl is eating is too much for him just yet.

[halfemptyglasses]

She wasn't expecting that to be an invitation, but it would be rude to refuse him now. And he's not going to take her food, so she's not exactly losing anything by him staying.

"Long night?" she tries in an attempt for polite conversation.

[fairytaleknight]

You could say that.

"Mm," he agrees.

What would Duck do when meeting a strange girl? She would introduce herself.

"Fakir," Fakir tries. It's sort of like saying, 'Hello, I'm Fakir,' in a way.

[reallyaduck]

It's rare, these days, that Duck doesn't remember making Princess Tutu's decisions for her -- the lines between them are growing thinner and thinner all the time, which is something she doesn't want to think too hard about -- but she doesn't remember coming here.

And how did Fakir get here, anyway? She shouldn't have left him alone! Not right after -- not when -- well, she doesn't really know what happened, there by the oak tree; but she doesn't think he should be alone.

She skids over to him, almost stumbling in her haste. "Fakir! Are you --" -- and here she breaks off, overwhelmed by possible choices: 'okay'? 'Still mystically bound to a creepy oak tree?' 'A Spinner?'

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir is, by this point, seated at a table, nursing a cup of tea and a slice of pie. He still needs a bath, but he's waited this long and can wait longer.

"Good morning, Duck."

[reallyaduck]

"Uh, is it? I mean --"

Belatedly, Duck remembers that she probably should be encouraging Fakir in acting like a normal social person who knows how to hold conversations and have hobbies and generally be pleasant around others people. (It's a little bit sad that a duck has to be encouraging a person in these things, but so it goes.) "-- good morning! Um, but, are you..."

Oh, hey, we're stuck again!

But at least, she notes, with some relief, he looks a lot better than he did.

[fairytaleknight]

"Am I what?" Fakir asks, very drily, and adds, "You could sit down."

Being in ... whatever he is ... with Duck does not seem to make her less irritating. That's useful to know.

[reallyaduck]

"...I dunno."

Duck frowns at him for a long moment, biting her lip, and then pulls out a chair and collapses into it, leaning her elbows on the table in order to frown at him better.

"I was gonna take you home!" she says, fretfully -- irritated with herself, and with forces beyond her control. "I mean, Princess Tutu was -- well, you know. After everything that happened -- and, I mean, you were at Autor's for all that time! I bet your dad's really worried. I was -- I mean, I am -- Fakir, last night was really weird!"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir shrugs, and doesn't wince when his back protests the motion. "I'm fine."

He's been away from Karon's for days or weeks on end before. This is nothing new.

As for last night, "You were there." You were there, and you saved me.

[stilljustandrew]

Sometime later:

It is, sadly, not cold enough for the lake to have frozen over. Andrew sighs, tucks away the insulated collecting jar in which he was really hoping to gather some surface ice, and starts heading back towards the bar.

And pauses along the way, at the sight of a vaguely familiar figure in a level stretch of ground near the lakeside.

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir is attempting to run through a warmup routine, with limited success. His flexibility is down, his feet still hurt, and he's having trouble balancing with a practice sword in his hand. But he has to start somewhere.

When Fakir sees Andrew, he sets the practice sword down on a tree stump, and shakes his arms out. Fakir's nod, translated into spoken language, means something like, Hello, Andrew. It's been a long time.

[stilljustandrew]

It really has.

"... Fakir, right?"

[fairytaleknight]

Fakir nods again. "Andrew."

It hasn't been quite so long in Fakir's timeline. (Don't even try to guess how long, though. When Time is a great machine run by a capricious storyteller, and other capricious storytellers start tampering with it, calendars start looking like Möbius strips.)

Fortunately, in that indefinite period of time, Fakir has learned some social graces from Duck. "How are you?"

[stilljustandrew]

"I'm good. How've you been? -- How long has it been? Like three, four years?"

Andrew's got something he uses for social graces, but it doesn't necessarily match everybody else's.

[fairytaleknight]

"It was just after the battle. That was..." a year? two months? two years? "Not three years ago. Less. A year, maybe."

I think.

"I'm well. I ... learned things, lately."