part 1/3

Fakir met Ahiru's anguished gaze, his own resolute.

It began a month or so ago. The walls reappeared around the town. Murders of crows perched upon trees and houses. Endings vanished from books. Their neighbors slithered across the road as if they always were snakes.

Fakir burned the stories he had written over the years. Still, a new story had taken hold–and only Fakir and Ahiru could feel the stifling difference in the air.

They talked about it extensively, and even Autor had advised them over the subject. There was a plan in place, though Ahiru protested tearfully, cradling their child to her breast and gripping Fakir's sleeve. "It won't be like that!" she wailed into his chest, their son stirring and whimpering between them, "We can figure everything out before that ever happens!"

Fakir shook his head, embracing them, the scar upon his hand itching.

When the cloaked figures encroached upon their little home by the lake at the edge of the woods, torches in hand in the darkness and axe glinting in the moonlight, Fakir was prepared. They exchanged glances for a brief moment (she was crying, his eyes were bloodshot) before they acted. She grabbed the satchel he readied for them (and one of Fakir's shirts, ripped with constant use and the scent of ink embedded in the cloth). He went to the baby's bassinet, tenderly wrapping the child in a blanket.

His baby had freckles and dark hair. With soft, round cheeks and long eyelashes, Fakir always did think he was a rather handsome boy–though, that might've been fatherly pride. He smiled through tears as he placed the infant in Ahiru's trembling arms (because he knew she wouldn't take him otherwise–anything to put off leaving).

Ahiru lingered at the entrance to the secret passage behind their wardrobe, lips quivering, shouldering the satchel, holding their child, reaching out to cling to Fakir's arm and beg him to come with them or let her stay.

But he knew she wasn't Princess Tutu anymore. She was the the mother of a story-spinner's child, and his only hope.

Their kiss was fervent and sweet, and his touch to his baby's forehead and cheek was gentle and lingering before he pushed them away, shutting away the hidden passage and locking the wardrobe.

The front door splintered beneath steel, and Fakir dried his eyes before meeting the bookmen at the entrance of his home.