Once upon a time, there was a prince who fell in love with a lovely princess. Alas, the princess had been cursed to remain a swan by a wizard and only became human during the night. The enchantment could only be permanently broken by a vow of eternal love. The prince held a ball during which he promised to love and stay by her side forever. But as soon as the words left his lips, the swan's white feathers turned black—he had been cruelly tricked into betraying his true love for the dark swan.

Distraught, the princess threw herself into the lake. Her prince followed her. Both drowned in despair. But was it really the fault of the black swan? No one could say that her love was truly impure. Besides, if the prince had loved the white swan, shouldn't he have been able to tell her apart from the black one? But oh! It seemed that the prince's love only stopped at appearances.1

...

The moonlight crept through the curtains, its tendrils stretching across the room. A beam softly illuminated the boy's face while he tossed and turned in a restless slumber. The sheets twisted and tangled around his limbs. A victim of his own mind, he battled fearsome monsters in his tumultuous dreams. Outside was no better. Rain pelted the window with a sharp thud thud thud while water streaked down the glass. The tiny droplets pooled together at the window sill, clear and pure, resembling little gems. Water was changeable, flowing into shape after shape, never quite staying the same—just like boy's fears. As Fakir grew older, the monsters under his bed became the Raven and terror of losing Mytho. The monsters shifted forms but remained the same to the depths of their rotten cores.

Fakir's eyes opened. He lurched forward. Cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He sucked in a sharp breath and clenched the sheets in his fists, fingers trembling and knuckles white. The nightmares had started to become regular. He believed that after Mytho and Rue left for the fairy tale world, he would be able to rest easy. But Fakir was so fucking wrong. If anything, his situation only worsened. Whenever he fell into the watery depths of slumber, he drowned and choked all while fear dug its dagger-like claws into his heart and tore it apart.

Fakir tossed the blankets aside then clambered out of bed. He shivered from the sudden loss of heat. Or fear. His chest felt tight; he had difficulty breathing. The boy stumbled to the lamp, grappling at the darkness. He turned it on and waited for his bleary eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. Papers lay strewn across his desk. Some were half-filled with smeared scrawls but most were blank. Fakir turned the quill over and over in his hand. The remaining ink at the tip stained his skin with black and smeared across an angry red scar in the middle of his hand. He rubbed the scar with his thumb and stared intently at the window with lips pressed together. His body was taut, muscles tense, like a wire about to snap.

The still silence shattered. Fakir lunged to his feet and snatched his cloak. He draped it around his shoulders, lit a lantern, and slipped outside. He crept down the dormitory's winding corridors, careful to keep the lantern hidden behind the cloak to not have the light draw attention. Every door was locked shut, the room's inhabitants fortunate enough to be under the slumber's spell. Fakir stumbled into a wall. His hand shook upon the impact and caused a bit of oil to spill to the floor. From one of the many rooms came the sound of a student stirring awake.

"Damn," he hissed. Gritting his teeth, tightening his grip, the boy continued walking. He managed to make it outside without another incident only to be pelted by the pouring rain. Fakir ignored the water drenching his clothes and the coldness seeping into his bones. He shivered as his fingers began to grow numb. Fucking idiot. He chastised himself for not having the forethought to change into warmer clothes before stepping outside; now he stood victim to nature's whims in nothing but shorts and a ripped shirt and a thin cloak.

Fakir soldiered on.

He returned to his room moments later with a yellow duck nestled in his arms.

Settling into his chair, Fakir set the bird on his desk and received an indignant quack in return. You don't need to worry about me.

Ahiru had always been a duck, but because of the story that followed Mytho, she had temporarily become a girl. Fakir didn't trust her to survive on her own, not so soon after returning to her original stage. For all he knew, Ahiru could've drowned. Ducks normally wouldn't, but he couldn't tell with a klutz like his friend.

"Don't cause trouble, idiot. I'm not going all the way back out there just to put you back in the pond." Fakir discarded his drenched cloak. He grabbed the softest pillow from his bed and set it by the duck. "Sleep here at least for the night."

Ahiru quacked. Her eyes shone with gratitude. Not for the first time, Fakir was struck with a wave of yearning, his wishes for pleasant days long gone pulled to the surface. All those times when they'd walked to school side by side underneath the expanse of blue sky, the hours in the library when she'd bother him as he attempted to study, when they sat across each other at the table sipping tea. Those days, so extremely ordinary, were the ones Fakir missed the most. Now the story had come to an end. Its gears had stopped and the magic had faded. It left behind an aimless town and two characters forced to remember what used to be. Ahiru and Fakir weren't important enough for a happy ending. They were merely sidekicks forgotten in the blinding golden glory of the prince and princess.

A rustling alerted Fakir of the present moment. Ahiru hopped onto the makeshift bed and folded her wings. The bird fell asleep almost immediately. Fakir smiled and petted her little head. Her feathers were soft against his calloused hands. Rubbing his eyes, the boy turned off the lamp. The light dimmed and left him in the still darkness. All was silent but for the sound of rain, his beating heart, and his loud thoughts.

Fakir climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his trembling body. He laid awake staring at the ceiling despite the exhaustion that plagued him. There was the faint tick tock of an old grandfather clock. Seconds, hours, days lost. Time had slipped through grasping fingers like grains of sand. Fakir didn't know how much time had passed—it could've easily been minutes or hours—but he felt movement near his pillow. A soft quack came from Ahiru. She waddled closer. Fakir lazily wrapped an arm around her, and she relaxed into the crook of his elbow. His breathing gradually slowed to match hers, and his eyes closed; sleep overtook him. The rest of the night was spent in a peaceful slumber.

But Fakir awoke the next morning to realize that, oddly enough, his room had no clock. Not a grandfather clock or even a simple wall clock. Nothing explained the soft tick tock he had heard the night before, but somehow he knew it had come from a grandfather clock. Despite the bright day and comforting light, Fakir shuddered. He shook his head but couldn't rid himself of the worrisome thoughts that harbored in the back of his mind. Upon grabbing his uniform blazer to prepare for the school day, he noticed the little duck on his pillow, still sound asleep. His lips twitched upwards. Some things never changed. It was just like Ahiru to sleep late. The advantages of no longer being a girl included not having to worry about punctuality. Fakir changed and left quietly to not awaken his friend.

He had the unfortunate pleasure of running into Autor. Though the older boy had his merits, he wasn't what Fakir considered good company. The boy soon found himself half-listening to a long-winded monologue on Autor's greatness and Drosselmeyer's brilliance. Ah yes, this was very much what Fakir needed after hours of lost sleep.

"You're blessed with the ability to make stories come to life, yet you can't write a single word?" Autor pushed his glasses up his nose and smirked.

Fakir grunted and tightened his grip on his books and papers. He was the descendant of Drosselmeyer, a tragedy-lover whose writing came true. The Book Men, a group of men who feared his words, cut off his hands. But before he died, the writer created a mechanism that would allow him to spin his tales from his grave. Not too long ago, the man who was supposed to be dead had dragged the entire town into a story with the intention of creating a heart-wrenching tragedy.

Unlike Autor, Fakir could write stories that became real, engendering the cocky musician's jealousy. Autor, who was somewhat related to Drosselmeyer as well, wholeheartedly believed that he was more deserving of such power. Fakir would've gladly transferred the ability to his obsessive distant cousin. Perhaps he could use it to return Ahiru's human form. They'd agreed to return to their true selves when the story ended, but Ahiru was far too sentient to just be a duck. Even before Drosselmeyer's inference, Ahiru had harbored feelings for Mytho, much like a human. All the anthropomorphic animals had returned to their original forms. They stopped acting like people while Ahiru still acted very much like a girl. Fakir didn't quite believe that his friend's true self was really a duck. He had tried and tried again to make Ahiru human, but had failed each time. He poured his all into heart-wrenching works of a duck becoming a girl, only to have the sentences stay as meaningless words on wrinkled paper. Fakir's writing abilities were nothing but a burden to him.

"You're thinking of her, aren't you? That girl who acts like a duck, the one you always write about? Though if you ask me, you could've chosen a better subject."

Ah, that was right: Autor in all his irritating glory still existed. Fakir grumbled, "She is a duck. And I prefer writing about her."

Autor sighed, then pushed his glasses up his nose. The lenses glared stridently in the bright sunlight. "What a shame. At the level you're at, you won't be getting anywhere."

"I have no interest in pursuing writing." Fakir's eye twitched.

"What a waste of a wondrous ability. I don't suppose you're continuing with ballet?"

Ballet. The way Autor pronounced it, how it oozed out of his mouth with such disgust, irked Fakir to no end. "And if I am? Nothing has happened the way we wanted it to, but you cannot try living vicariously through me."

Autor sniffed, straightening his collar. "How quick to jump to conclusions. As always, you have quite the temper. I'll have you know I wasn't trying to."

The two parted ways without another word. Fakir stood still, the breeze lifting the ends of his hair and stirring up the vibrant leaves. He watched Autor walk into the music division building. A contradiction of sorts that boy was. So hopelessly arrogant about his knowledge, yet really, he knew nothing useful. So awed by Drosselmeyer's sadistic actions, yet he courageously defended Fakir against a tragic fate. Autor was an annoyance, but he was the closest thing Fakir had to a human friend.

Now what was he thinking? He must be going mad if he considered the purple-haired musician a friend. Yet the teen couldn't deny that he had also once scoffed at the idea of working with Ahiru, and look where they were now. Fakir figured that perhaps there was a possibility. After all, the little yellow duck had taught him to always have hope—anything was possible. That, or loss of sleep made him delusional.

Fakir walked to the practice rooms and entered one. The building was mainly empty; classes had yet to begin. He slipped inside. The new ballet instructor emphasized practicing every day, which he had done so diligently. But on that morning, the boy didn't quite feel like doing so. He had always practiced in the early mornings and late evenings. If anyone deserved to take a break, it was him. The danseur2 leaned against the wall and rested a hand on the barre. The wood was rough and cool. One side of the room was a mirror, the glass so clear it would reflect anything and everything. The other side had large windows that allowed sunbeams to deep into the dim room. In the early morning, the light tinged it a soft orange-pink.

How many countless hours had he spent in here, occupied with nothing but dancing? Fakir had lost track. He meandered across the room as his hand trailed along the barre. At this moment, he couldn't help but take in the sight before him as though it was the most dazzling scene to ever appear. Even the cobwebs clustered in the corners seemed precious. Everything ordinary was.

The door opened and caused Fakir to look up. Autor stood in the threshold with music sheets in hand, glasses glinting in the light. "I thought I would find you here."

The moment, formerly suspended in the endlessness of time, was startled to an end. It was like a beautiful glass vase that had fallen to the floor and shattered.

"What is it?" Fakir let his hand fall to his side.

"This was left in my bag—I didn't put it there. Something about it, well, you should take a look." Autor handed him the music sheets. The danseur flipped through them. There, printed on the papers in blood-red ink, were the notes for every piece used in Swan Lake. He was struck with a uneasy feeling. Somehow, he knew which ballet the music was for. He wasn't supposed to. Fakir sucked in a sharp gasp and massaged his forehead. The last page was torn in half; a story had never reached its end. A sleek black feather slipped from the pages and floated to the ground. Fakir's eyes widened, and his chest tightened.

"How?" The word came out as a hoarse whisper in the hollow silence.

Autor shook his head. "I'm not certain. Perhaps it is a ploy from the Bookmen. It is possible that they may still remember us."

He made a plausible point, but still, Fakir couldn't ignore the pit of dread that formed in his stomach. Deep down, he knew that this meant so much more. "Let's hope it is." Without another word, he brushed past Autor. Unsurprisingly, the musician became indignant and followed close on Fakir's heels.

"Where are you going?"

"The library."

"I'm going with you."

"There's no need."

"Don't you remember what happened? It was me with my superior knowledge who helped you bring Drosselmeyer's story to an end. While the ending of such a marvelous piece is ironically a tragedy in itself, you can't just tell me 'there's no need.'"

Fakir glanced at him. "Fine."

Autor smirked and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Of course. You can't deny that I am important."

The danseur fought to avoid crumpling the music sheets in his hand and hurling them at Autor's face. Taking a deep breath, Fakir entered the library. He felt like an out of control wreck, a feeling exacerbated by the quiet calm of the few studying students. Girls and boys in their crisp school uniforms sat at desks with large textbooks opened, not bothering to look up when the pair entered. Briefly, Fakir wondered what it was like to be normal. Drosselmeyer's stories had ruined the lives of everyone involved. Ahiru, who fought with all her might to give the story a happy ending, ended up turning back into a duck, unable to dance or talk with her friends. Autor, who so manically researched Drosselmeyer and composed theories that the stories were controlling the town, was abandoned by the girl he loved and spent his days knowing that his theories would never be validated. The town had forgotten everything and moved on. All the tears shed, the pain endured-that meant nothing to the townspeople who simply continued on with their daily lives. Fakir himself could barely stand it. He needed Ahiru, Autor, Karon. He needed people who remembered, who cared.

Hell, he actually needed Autor, as much as he hated to admit it. Now the boy knew was really going mad. Perhaps that was what the story-spinning power did to people; in addition to being a talented writer whose words became reality, Drosselmeyer was the epitome of insanity.

Upon reaching the librarian's desks, Fakir stopped dead in his tracks, his hold on the papers loosening. The hairs on the back prickled, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears. Instead of a human at the desk, a bat hung upside down from the ceiling with books in its little hooked claws.

"Fakir, what is it?" grumbled Autor, who had run into him. Upon peering behind his shoulder, he gasped. In disbelief, the musician straightened his glasses, but the scene before him remained the same.

Annoyed, the bat glared at them, demanding in a nasally voice, "Haven't you two ever heard that it's rude to stare?"

Fakir cleared his throat and backed away. "My apologies." Grabbing Autor's arm, he dragged him to a secluded area of the library.

"The talking bat, no one noticing a thing, magic..."

"I know," Fakir whispered when he had finished rambling. "Drosselmeyer is returning."

Little did the knight know, the very man he spoke of watched with undivided attention. From his realm of clocks and gears, the man who was supposed to die lounged in his rocking chair, a cup of tea in his hand. Three parts Darjeeling and one part Assam—his favorite blend, especially for the beginning of a magnificent tragedy. Puppets and machinery were suspended by thin strings in the dark nothingness, ready to be summoned at his whim. No sun could be seen in the world beyond death, but a light illuminated the writer as though he were the star of a play. The chair creaked in the still silence as he rocked back and forth, occupied by the scene depicted in the spinning gear unfolding before him.

"Ah, you failure of a knight, you didn't really think that was the end of me, did you?" Drosselmeyer cackled. The light glinted off his leering orange eyes. "Now, tell me a magnificent tragedy, a cataclysm of tears in which not a single person survives and to which a happy ending shall never come!"

"Drosselmeyer-zura!" The banging of a drum interrupted his laughter. The sound grew louder; Uzura, a miniature green-haired puppet, hopped closer.

Eye twitching, the old man turned to look at her. What did she want that was so important she had to cut off his session of fun?

"What about Ahiru, zura?" Uzura looked up at him with wide green eyes. She folded the drumsticks across the drum, pressing her lips together.

Drosselmeyer stroked his beard. A wicked smile spread across his wrinkled face. "That is a marvelous idea! A perfect heroine is the epitome of boring, but an imperfect one would certainly add some flourish to this story." Snapping his gloved fingers, he conjured a grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging violently from side to side. Tick tock, tick tock. Giggling like a little child, the man stepped inside with Uzura at his heels and was transported to a pond on the outskirts of town.

The pond was a secret place shrouded in thick fog and obscured by towering trees. All was silent but for the buzzing of the bugs who floated on the water. Near the edge of the water, peeking through a cluster of reeds, was the bright yellow of a duck. Ahiru munched on the breadcrumbs Fakir had left her during lunch. Upon hearing the leaves crunching under feet, she looked up, heart quivering with expectancy, expecting to see the very boy who had left her food. Her blood ran cold when instead of Fakir, Drosselmeyer's looming figure appeared before her. His orange eyes lit up, and he grinned at her to reveal large yellow teeth.

"Ah, it's been quite some time, hasn't it?" When her eyes widened in horror, Drosselmeyer laughed, a raspy sound that collided with nature's melody.

"Quack!" Ahiru furiously flapped her wings and kicked her feet, propelling herself to the other side of the pond. Her heart pounded in her rib cage like Uzura's drum. She was imagining things. This must've been another nightmare! It couldn't be true. The old man's return simply wasn't possible. She had seen Fakir destroy his machine with her own eyes.

An illusion of the writer's face appeared in the rippling water before Ahiru. "Did you forget, little duck? You're just another pawn for me to create a brilliant tragedy!"

The bird flailed wildly, sending water splashing everywhere, and turned the other direction. She plunged headfirst into the water and tumbled below the surface. She choked and coughed when the water entered her beak and built up in her throat. Ahiru quacked and flapped her wings. She struggled to regain momentum and swim away from Drosselmeyer.

No sooner had she reached the edge of the pond did his form appear before her once more. The writer leaned over with outstretched hands. "This time, you won't be so lucky as to have a happy ending!"

Ahiru shook her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed him away. If only this were a horrid nightmare, the man would simply be a figment of her imagination. When there was no response, the bird relaxed and opened her eyes, only to be greeted with Drosselmeyer's face right in front of her. She quacked and fell backwards in an attempt to escape.

"Ah, but it doesn't look like you have a happy ending now, does it? Oh, how interesting! Things will be changing in your peaceful pond life very soon!" The writer stepped back inside the grandfather clock. With the faint whirl of gears and the soft tick tock, the clock faded. The air became silent again as though the world was holding its breath.

Head bowed, Ahiru stared at her reflection in the pond. She used her wings to scoop up the water and splash it on her face then slapped herself. She even waddled up to the shore and hit her head on the ground. Nothing erased the memory of Drosselmeyer from her mind. She peered through the tall reeds, through the curtain of fog, through the clustered trees. Everything was as it had been before: it was as though the writer had never appeared. A little spark of hope lit up in the duck's chest. Perhaps he had never appeared. Perhaps it was really all just a horrid dream, one to be locked in the back of her mind. No, that was foolish. To deny was like asking for trouble later on.

Ahiru took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Her heart still pounded wildly, beating faster than the ticking of a clock. Time. She was running out of time. The bird waddled up on land then paused when she saw the expanse of trees before her. The forest seemed to stretch on for miles. A seed of doubt took root in her mind. What could she do? It would take hours as a duck to make it to the town. Being so small, she would only be trampled beneath the townspeople's feet. In addition, there was no guarantee that she would even find Fakir. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't do anything, not even alert Fakir of Drosselmeyer's appearance. Not for the first time, Ahiru felt helpless, useless, and unneeded. For lack of a better option, she waited for her knight to arrive.

...

1 - Based off of Swan Lake, a ballet that was first composed in 1875 and has various endings.

2 - A male ballet dancer.