A Dream of Spring, chapter 1

Author's Note:

This story starts from a slightly bleaker interpretation of the series's ending. Additionally, the story is titled after a poem, not an unreleased book by George R. R. Martin. George will never get around to finishing that, though, so I feel all right using this title.

Summer was coming. Fakir could see it in the trees that lined the river winding around the academy's campus as he idly strolled along its edge, their tender green leaves unfurling and deepening in color in the generous late-April sun. Remarkable, really, considering the gray and drizzly spring that had recently passed. Even the river, no longer in a state of constant churning from steady rainwater, was as sparklingly clear and bright as the day. He relished days like these, though one would never know just by watching him looking stone-faced across the stream, his expression more contemplative than reverent.

He settled down at the base of a nearby tree, leaning heavily against its smooth trunk as he contemplated his right hand. He closed it into a fist, opened it, and closed it again. Miraculously, the pen knife he had driven through it had missed every delicate bone, leaving him with a reasonably small scar and full use of his hand with the exception of the occasional ache. Recently, even the aching had ceased. The rest was doing it good.

He had not written a single word about the town, the people, the weather, or ducks, in several weeks. The town was stabilized, open, free of the Story's hold. There was no need for another person to step into the role of God for any longer than was expressly necessary, especially someone like him. Such power did not belong in the hands of a human being; the town ought to be left to grow and change on its own now that he had at least set right all that Drosselmeyer had done. Such had been his reasoning in the weeks leading up to his final decision to stop writing the town's story. He had acclimated himself to the idea, convinced himself that he was in the right. Autor, of course, had disagreed. After nearly two years of tolerating Autor, Fakir had thought very little of the brief argument that followed.

Recently, though, he had begun to doubt himself. Though he still believed that he had made the right decision, he wondered if he had made it for the right reasons. Autor's accusations echoed in his mind at inopportune moments. You're only afraid. You can't be bothered to learn how to properly control it. You're wasting a gift.

His subconscious mind, somehow, was even more deeply troubled. The past month had been a restless one. The entirety of each night was spent deep in dreaming, and each morning he awoke feeling no more rested than he had before settling into his bed. Miraculously, his concentration at school had yet to suffer as a result, but he imagined it was only a matter of time.

Looking up into the boughs of the tree, he recalled the forest he found himself in each night. In his dreams, he rode half-blind through a moonlit forest, weaving between the trees in pursuit of another rider. Each night, he closed the distance between himself and the other man, and each night he cut him down. At first, he had been reminded of the Ghost Knight, but as time went on and the dream repeated itself nightly, the scenario seemed less and less familiar. The first difference that Fakir noticed was also the most troubling.

The man was unarmed. He shuddered slightly in spite of the warm sun on his face as he recalled the phantom sensation of his sword easily slashing through the man's side, sending him toppling from his saddle to sprawl out in a bleeding heap on the snow.

To dream of tracking down and murdering a helpless man was one thing, but to revisit the dream each night was quite another. While he didn't care to ascribe some supernatural explanation to the dreams - Drosselmeyer was gone, and with him such things as the Ghost Knight - the psychiatric interpretations of such dreams were no more comforting.

Neither was waking from the dream in pain, his chest aching and burning. He would wake curled in on his side, breathless and sore for several minutes before the pain drained away leaving him feeling almost numb. This had begun only recently, within the past week. Unfortunately, the pain grew more intense with each passing day. This morning he had felt...

As though he would be split in half. Fakir didn't want to think of it that way, but it was a difficult thought to ignore.

With all this on his mind, it was really no surprise that Fakir had found no time that day to visit the lake. It was no excuse, of course, but it was hardly surprising. When he did have the time to visit, he was relieved that Ahiru hadn't asked to see any of his writing. He had yet to tell her that he had stopped. He felt it was an insult to her sacrifice, and had not yet prepared an explanation that would adequately justify it to her. She would accept any explanation, he imagined, taking it all in stride with as much of a smile as a duck could manage. But it would hurt her, and he didn't want that. He had already failed her so many times, missed so many visits. He had failed so many times to give her a body that would match her mind, and she forgave him every time.

A minor ruckus across the stream jarred him from his thoughts, and he was grateful enough for the distraction that he craned his neck to peer over the shrubs lining the opposite bank to see just what the chatter was about. A small group of girls - from the intermediate class, from the look of them - followed their instructor in a huddled, chattering mass, glancing this way and that as if they expected something to spring out of the shrubs and attack them. The presence of the instructor, whose name Fakir had forgotten again, piqued his interest.

"Is something the matter?" he called as he got to his feet. The girls jumped and gave little undignified squeaks, and Fakir found himself fixed with five wide-eyed stares. Their teacher hushed them.

"Miss Freya has slipped away from class again," she said. He swept a stray curl of black hair from her eyes and sighed in barely restrained annoyance.

"She's disappeared!" one of the girls piped up. The others nodded as if to confirm this.

"Just like Gisila did," another said. "And Lucia, too."

"Enough!" their instructor hissed. "No more gossip about this; I won't have you perpetuating any more rumors. Gisila and Lucia are being searched for and will be found, wherever they've gone. It isn't unusual for Miss Freya to shirk her responsibilities once summer arrives, even when she's to assist me." She huffed and turned back to Fakir. "I apologize for them. Now, Mr. Fakir, have you seen Miss Freya?"

"I haven't," Fakir said simply. As troubled as he was by the sudden unexplained disappearance of the two girls, he couldn't imagine Freya's truancy being at all related. He turned to leave, uninterested in the search and the girls' frantic speculations.

"Well, you are returning to your own class, I hope," the woman called to him. Her voice held a note of disapproving expectation.

"I was walking home for lunch, actually," Fakir replied, not bothering to turn around. If she wanted to implicitly accuse him of skipping class, he figured she didn't deserve his full attention.

Fakir was greeted by an empty house and a covered plate of food on the kitchen table, as was his usual lunchtime routine. Days when Karon could find time enough to eat lunch during times Fakir was permitted to wander off into town were rare. The strain on Karon's schedule brought about by living with no wife to run errands while he worked and a young son in school had escaped Fakir's notice when he was much younger, when Raetsel would stop by to help with whatever was needed and Fakir himself still took all his lessons at home. Now, though, the strain on his adoptive father was quite clear, and without Mytho to follow him home, Fakir almost always took lunch alone. It wasn't as if anyone had any reason to invite him over.

He washed his hands, ate in silence, and left. Normally he would go up to his room to read, but he had wasted too much time staring up into the trees to justify dawdling any longer. He had a reputation for truancy to dispel, after all.

A deep frown pulled at he corners of his mouth when, upon opening the front door, he was greeted by Autor's smug face. The other boy's hand was poised to knock on the door, and he quickly lowered it.

"What are you doing at my house?" Fakir demanded before Autor could so much as open his mouth.

With an air of entitlement that only he could muster, Autor replied, "I had news for you, and I know that you take lunch at home. So I came here. Simple, isn't it?"

Fakir scoffed and shoved his way past Autor, shutting the door behind him. "Don't be coy. Just tell me what was so important that you had to stalk me."

"You have a letter," Autor replied, the knowing smile on his face spreading even wider.

"Just how do you know whether I have a letter or not?" Fakir asked as he began to walk off toward he academy. He wasn't particularly interested in the answer.

Autor followed, and Fakir fixed him with a paralyzing glower. "It's on your desk at school as we speak," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

This gave Fakir pause. "What were you doing in my room?" he snapped. He heaved a huge sigh and stalked off, leaving Autor behind. "I never want to see you in there, or here of you invading my room, ever again. Understand?"

Cautious footsteps followed him. "Fakir, don't just cha-"

"No," Fakir said firmly. The second set of footsteps were instantly silenced. "I'm in no mood for you right now. Go home. Leave me alone."

By the time Fakir finally returned to his room after class and supper that evening, Autor's urgent announcement had entirely escaped his memory. He was too tired from the day's extended practice to reflect on their brief encounter. He slipped out of his jacket the moment he stepped into his room, allowing it to drop onto the floor. It was followed swiftly by his shirt and belt. He set the glass brooch from his shirt on his bedstand and fell heavily onto his bed, content to lie half-undressed for a few minutes in the relative silence. The walls dampened the distant chatter of others boys returning from supper, and the heavy drapes he kept drawn over the window blotted out what remained of the day's sunlight. He could sleep, just like this, succumbing to the ache in his legs and the now-familiar dullness gnawing at his mind.

But it would be undignified, even for him, to sleep in his clothes. Not to mention that he was reluctant to fall asleep, afraid to dream again. He would stave it off for as long as he could, but he knew that in the end he would sleep for the sake of being at least rested enough to go to class. For the time being, he would pry off his shoes, dress down to his t-shirt and shorts, and read.

Lying on his side, he relied on the bright yellow light from his bedside lamp and the same kind of adventure stories he'd read as a child to keep him reasonably lucid. In a way, he hoped that eventually he would discover the optimal level of exhaustion, one that would allow him to sleep so deeply that his mind could find no energy to waste on dreaming.

Pages and chapters and hours passed, and eventually Fakir's eyes drifted shut, the book falling open on his chest and the lamp still illuminating the room.

The dreams came soon after. Even in sleep, Fakir immediately noticed the stark difference between these dreams and the dreams of the night before. He found himself whisked through dozens of scenes. One set of surroundings would materialize only to be washed away and replaced by the next moments later. A sunset over a craggy mountain, the eaves of a wooden roof, a sun-drenched field of swaying grasses. So many moments, flashing rapidly across his sleeping mind. Not just sights, but sounds and even smells. Leather, heavy flakes of snow falling on a quiet hillside, even the elusive scent of approaching rainfall. These glimpses seemed so real, so whole, that he was startled to wake the next morning and find himself in his bedroom.

He sat up, still dazed, one hand braced on his right shoulder in anticipation of the pain he associated with waking. Outside, the clock tower played its morning tune, and by the time it had concluded he still felt no pain. Only a faint warmth spreading across his chest.

Very strange.

After setting his book aside, he hauled himself out of bed and dressed. For the first time in weeks, he felt rested enough to carefully wash up and dress himself, to comb the tangles from his hair and tie it back neatly. It was a pity that this newfound energy was wasted on a Sunday morning, but he only realized this partway into his morning routine. By that time, he was almost glad for it. He could practice however he liked, or spend the day at the library.

He could visit the lake.

The thought occurred to him abruptly while he was buttoning the yellow waistcoat he had pulled on over his shirt in place of his school jacket, and for the first time in weeks it was not followed by a wave of guilty dread. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he hurried through the rest of his morning preparations before walking briskly out his door. The few boys awake and chatting in the hallway almost looked surprised at his emergence, though Fakir couldn't imagine why. He left them to mutter amongst themselves.

Like the river, the lake had undergone a dramatic transformation since the last biting days of lingering winter had passed. Bright sunlight and the mirrored images of shyly budding tree branches reflected on its undisturbed surface, and the air around it was alive with the sounds of singing birds and humming insects. Fakir's footsteps across the dock jutting out onto the lake's surface added a sparse, even percussion to the lake's informal song. He waited at the very end of the dock a few moments, scanning the water's surface for any signs of motion.

There was no sign of the little white duck paddling out to greet him. This was quite unusual, as she seldom strayed from the lake and the area of forest immediately surrounding it, and up to this moment had always eagerly come out to the dock to greet him. It was worrisome that she did not.

He scanned the treeline around the lake, waited, then called out. "Hey! You idiot, you had better not have gotten yourself eaten by a fox..."

He trailed off uneasily; though he spoke in jest the possibility had occurred to him many times, and he had never had to consider it seriously before. Thankfully, his call was answered by a rustling at the other side of the lake. When Ahiru did not appear, he grew uneasy again and ran from the dock, around the lake. She could be hurt, couldn't she? Yes, he thought, that was entirely possible.

Just as he reached the rustling spot of underbrush, something sprung up from the leaves and twigs and launched itself at him. Startled, he gave an undignified yelp and threw up his arms only to be tackled the next instant by...

A girl? He looked down at the head of tangled orange hair buried in his chest in abject confusion, unable to process this situation at all.

"Thank you!" The voice was familiar, though cracked with disuse. Vocal cords like an old leather belt. "Thank you, thank you. I don't- You-"

"A... Hiru?" Fakir managed, blinking stupidly down at the girls in his arms. She turned her face up to him, grinning brightly, and nodded. It was strange to see that face again, to see the changes brought about by what to him was so very little time. Her eyes no longer seemed too large for her face, her cheeks had lost some of their baby roundness. She had grown taller, her hair longer. She was almost like a grown woman.

It was this stray thought which caused him to abruptly release her and step back, his eyes directed straight up into the tree branches above. Ahiru laughed. Already her voice was growing less ragged.

"You're still kinda skittish, huh?"

"Put some clothes on, moron."

"I can't do that when I haven't got any clothes to put on, can I? And what are you calling me a moron for? I can't help it!"

Without even looking down, Fakir quickly removed his shirt and waistcoat and tossed them in Ahiru's general direction. Only the rustling of fabric indicated that she was dressing at all.

"You can look now," she said, some playful petulance in her voice. "You know, you could have just brought me some clothes."

With a small inquisitive sound, Fakir turned back to her. His shirt was just barely long enough to cover anything effectively now that her legs had grown so long. She looked gawkish in it, really, her limbs too long and fine for a body that had yet to fill out properly.

The confusion on his face must have been obvious, as she repeated herself after a moment. "You should have brought me clothes."

"Why?"

Ahiru's mouth turned down in a wide and almost comical frown. She folded her arms over her chest. "You really are thoughtless sometimes," she said. The air of annoyance evaporated almost instantly, replaced with a warm, grateful smile. "But you never stopped trying, even if I never asked and always forgave you."

That smile twisted Fakir's heart, and he could manage no reply.

"Is something wrong?" she asked hesitantly, her smile faltering. She was far more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

Fakir swallowed and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Ahiru, I didn't bring anything because I didn't expect this. This isn't my doing."

Her expression fell. "That's not possible," she said with a tone of certainty that only she could muster under these circumstances.

"The last time I wrote a story for you, there was still snow on the ground," Fakir admitted, his voice losing much of its strength the longer he spoke. "I burned every failed story in the stove in Karon's kitchen."

Realization dawned on Ahiru's face, tinged with dread and suspicion. "When did you last write, then?" she asked. He suspected she had noticed the absence of his pens and notebooks at the lakeside and not mentioned them out of courtesy.

"In February," Fakir admitted softly, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry."

She closed the distance between them and grasped his scarred hand. "Why?" she asked. He looked up into her softly smiling face. "Only you know when to write and not to write, right? It's your gift, so you know best..."

Fakir's hand tensed in her hold. "I knew you would just accept this. Like you always do."

She shook her head, still smiling. "Don't talk like that." Her smile brightened, and she set off to leave the lake, more or less dragging him behind her. "You can turn anything into gloom and doom, you know that?"

Dumbfounded, Fakir could only follow her, stunned by how utterly untroubled she was by all this. But that was just her way, wasn't it? That boundless enthusiasm and hopefulness that enabled her to save them all, and that innocence that enabled ehr to see the good in anyone, even when Fakir was certain that goodness was only imagined.

It was why he had allowed her to live as she did, a human heart in the body of an animal. Even though it might have been kinder, he could not rob her of that tender human heart as he had several others.

Forget being human.

Forget dancing.

Forget wanting.

Live the short life of an animal with no regret for time and opportunity lost.

He couldn't do that to her, and because of this he became fixated on returning her humanity.

"You're awfully quiet," she said suddenly, giving a sharp tug on his hand. She'd led him from the lake to the little hidden pool behind Karon's house. "You weren't even listening to me, were you?"

"I was thinking," Fakir replied defensively, snatching his hand away. "What were you going on about?"

Unaffected by his snotty behavior, Ahiru let herself in the backdoor of the house and motioned for him to follow. "I wanted to get dressed. And it's the last day of the month, right?"

Fakir nodded and followed, suspicious of the question. "The thirtieth of April. I didn't know you kept track of time so meticulously." He glanced around the work room, not wanting to find Karon lurking somewhere to see him creeping in the back door with a mostly naked girl.

"Well, I do!" she said. She headed for the steep stairs up to his bedroom, and he wondered just how well she knew his house after visiting only a few times. He followed, eyes on the steps the entire time. Did she have to go up first? She turned a cheeky smile down at him, but he never saw it. "The Fire Festival is tonight."

"It is," Fakir said as he emerged into his bedroom after her. The date had completely slipped his mind. "Why?"

"I want to go," she said. She was already peering into his dresser.

"With me?" he asked, stepping over to her side. "Hey. You're not wearing any more of my clothes."

She turned a playful smile up at him and shrugged. "Who else am I gonna go with? And I've never gone before, and neither have you. I think. Have you ever been?"

"Ah. No, I haven't," Fakir admitted. He took her by the shoulders and directed her away from his dresser. "I... suppose we could go. It's stupid, but we could go as a celebration, since you want to go."

"But you won't like it."

"I won't," Fakir said with a heavy sigh. "Now just stay here, okay? I'll get you something to wear."

Ahiru plopped down onto his bed, half-pouting. "Fine, but don't forget something for yourself, too."

"I meant something to wear in the meantime, and I'm not wearing one of those ridiculous, archaic costumes."

"Wear more yellow, then," Ahiru suggested cheerfully. Fakir paused, his hand still on the doorknob, and eyed her. Her smile widened. "It's a good color for you," she explained, pinching the fabric of the waistcoat he'd thrown at her. "I like it, too, so... Maybe, being friends, we have more in common now."

Fakir rolled his eyes and wordlessly pulled the door open, only to stop in his tracks again as something fell to the floor. A large envelope, pierced with a tack, had fallen from the back of his door. Autor's familiar overwrought scrawl covered one side. He could hear Ahiru hop up from the bed to peer over his shoulder as he read it.

"I am through waiting for you to return so that I can deliver this to you," the note read. "I regret that my responsibilities, even on a Sunday, make it impossible for me to wait patiently for you to return either here or to your room at the academy. Whatever you have wasted your day doing, I request that you read this immediately once you have finished. I have done you a favor and respected what I imagine you would wish by not reading it myself. Again, read this immediately."

The paper crinkled in Fakir's hand as he grasped it tightly, scowling. A favor? He had done him a favor by not reading his mail? That slime...

"Autor hasn't changed at all, has he?" Ahiru piped up, sounding rather unimpressed.

"Not in the slightest," Fakir grumbled as he haphazardly ripped the envelope open. A smaller one fell free, and he snatched it up before it could fall to the floor. It was small, the paper thin and delicate with gilded edges. At first he suspected that it might be a love letter from an especially dedicated girl, but that suspicion fled the moment he glanced at the familiar handwriting that addressed it to him. Not nearly as refined or as perfect as he remembered, but still the same. He fell silent, awestruck and deeply confused. It should not have been possible...

Ahiru peered around him. "Is something wrong? What is it?"

"A letter from Mytho," Fakir said as he turned the little envelope over in his hands. He slipped a nail under the flap and gently slit it open.

She gasped and leaned in closer, studying the letter as Fakir unfolded it. "From the Prince?"

"Yes. From the Prince, from Siegfried." He had no reason to call him Mytho anymore.

"What does it say?"

Fakir sighed and glowered at her. "Let me read it! You can read, too, can't you? Or did you forget?"

It seemed she hadn't heard him. Her gaze was fixed on the page in Fakir's hands, her eyes widening and the curious smile on her face falling.

"Fakir..."

Almost reluctantly, he looked back down at the letter as quickly read it. His expression slowly came to mirror Ahiru's.

"Fakir,

I hope that this letter finds you well, and regret that I cannot send this letter as a gesture of good will. Rather, I send it as a call to my aid, to the aid of my kingdom. I fear I must be brief.

My efforts to rebuild our kingdom in the wake of the destruction wrought by the Raven's rampage have been interrupted and in many ways undone by the emergence of a hitherto unnoticed threat. Worse, I fear that the veil between our two worlds is thinning, and that this new threat can be the only cause, and that your world has been targeted as well. It is through the exploitation of this change that I am able to send you this letter.

A difficult journey awaits me, one that I cannot make alone. For reasons I will explain in person, I beseech you to join me.

On midnight, on the night of the Fire Festival, a coach will arrive with instructions to bring you directly to the palace. If you would come to my aid, await its arrival at the clock tower at the center of town.

Sincerely,

Mytho."

Ahiru, as usual, was the first to break the silence that fell between them.

"I'm going with you."