04 - Crown of Stone

[herr_bookman]

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"This is some sort of mistake!" Autor cried, slapping his palm on the Bookman's desk. "When I did the genealogical investigation, he was definitely connected to Drosselmeyer. But I had to tell him everything he knew about it!"

He leaned back and adjusted his glasses. "I even know what you people are," Autor said, staring at the wizened man. Your ancestors were responsible for cutting off Drosselmeyer's hands, and you now you dare to think you can stop me? "I want you to recognize that I am qualified for this!"

The Bookman leered at him, lacing his fingers together. "There are no qualifications other than those to be someone who is alive."

What the hell does that even mean? Autor thought viciously.

He sliced the air with his hand. "Is this world not being controlled by Drosselmeyer's story?" Autor said. "No one knows but us!"

"There are things that are good and bad to know," the Bookman said simply. "Go back!"

"Damn it," Autor said, storming out of the shop, fists curled at his sides. "So he's the one? Then why was I born into this world!"

He stopped abruptly, surprised by the raven-haired girl laid out on the cobblestones.

"Cold," she whispered.

"What's wrong?" he asked, reaching out to her. "You... You're from the ballet division. Rue?"

With wine red eyes, she fixed him in place as she stood. Spellbound, he could do nothing but watch as she gracefully stepped over to him and laid a hand--and then her head--on his chest.

"Your heart. It's beating so quickly," she said, and he shuddered as her hair--as soft as crow's feathers, he thought--tickled his throat. "Why?"

Autor's cheeks burned. "Because you..." he squeaked, leaning back to find himself pushed against a wall. He tried to think of Mirai--or his shoes, or anything else--but his head was clouded by Rue's sweet, intoxicating perfume. "This beautiful fragrance... Gardenias?"

It clearly wasn't artificial strawberry, some part of him noted passively. But the rest of him was focused on the way this girl was gazing at him, stripping him bare.

"Come with me," she said, lips parted and close enough to kiss.

"Okay," he replied, crimson staining his cheeks.

By the time she'd led him halfway across town, Autor had already spilled the secrets of his life's work. "Yes, the Story must be controlling this town," he said, elated to have an audience. "But people cannot realize that fact."

He paused, looking around at where she was leading him--down a set of stone steps into a catacomb. "No matter what strange things happen, we are made to believe that things have always been this way."

Rue favored him with a small smile, and his heart hammered against his chest. "I'm the only one that can solve this mystery!" he declared. "So I'm also the one with the qualifications to change this world!"

"You're right," she said softly, and he reigned in a gasp. "You can change the world."

"Yes!" he said, holding out a hand for her while she stood on the steps below. "Just as I imagined. You think so, too?" Autor relaxed into her praise, smiling. "What an amazing girl you are."

"This way," she said, leading him down a few more steps.

"Wait up, Rue!" he said, following closely behind. "Where are you taking me?"

She didn't speak for a maddening amount of time, leaving Autor to his spinning thoughts.

More than once he caught himself staring at her long, shapely legs, and wondering if he could wind her soft, black hair around his calloused fingertips. It wasn't pink, but he liked it anyway. He imagined pressing kisses to her ears and down the line of her neck, whispering declarations of lov--Oh. But I can't love her. I just met her!

"Right now, I'm lost," he confessed, tongue swollen. "Somehow I've come to think of you..."

She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.

"This must have been decided by the Story as well," Autor said, just realizing it himself. Is this my part? What I was born for? He was uncomfortably aware of his breathing, which quickened with his thoughts. "After all, everyone is a marionette."

He stepped forward, placing a hand over his heart. It was now or never and his words spilled out, loud and frantic as they tumbled over one another. "It seems that I've come to love you!"

Rue paled as her breath hitched. "Love me?"

"Yes," Autor said passionately, reaching out for her hair.

She turned to face him, and he stopped, gazing into fierce eyes that were the wrong color. "Enough to throw away your life?"

"Yes, if it was for you..." Autor said, and he knew--he just knew--that this had to be his purpose, to die for his love. Everything he was, everything he had learned had brought him to this moment.

"Of course that couldn't be!" Rue said, and her soft laughter sounded like shattering glass in Autor's ears.

"It's not a lie!" Autor said, feeling the color drain from his face. He stepped forward again, heart still beating erratically against his palm. "Rue, I..."

"Stop it!" Rue cried, and Autor could almost hear the words, how unpleasant, underneath.

But his mind was fixed on Rue, Rue, Rue, drowning out any other thoughts, any other desires. "I can't live any longer without loving you," he said quietly, drawing his reaching hand back.

"Go back," she said, and the boy noticed that she was trembling. He knew that he could comfort her, wrap her up in his arms--if only she wanted him.

But she didn't. She didn't want anything to do with him. It broke something inside Autor, to be so undesirable. So utterly unlovable. But he had to listen to her, to respect her wishes. He swallowed, feeling her eyes bore into him even as he looked away.

The boy clenched his fists at his side, biting back tears as he glanced back to her. "These emotions aren't fake," he said, voice breaking. Then he turned away, climbing the steps alone, only to hear her sobbing behind him.