05 - Marionettes

[herr_bookman]

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It took the rest of the day to seek out Fakir. Dusk was approaching by the time Autor found him. The ex-knight was crouched in the grass in front of Drosselmeyer's grave, staring at a blank piece of parchment--one of many, the others crumpled up on the ground.

"It looks as if you've reached your limit, huh?" Autor scoffed. "It was perfect for you to choose the front of Drosselmeyer's grave, but if you don't have stories to tell flowing out of you one after--"

"Could you please be quiet?" Fakir said, resting his head on his fist.

Autor started. How dare you use my words against me? He folded his arms. "Even though I have so many things to write right now. How ironic."

The boy was about to expound upon ways to rid oneself of writer's block when a gust of wind threatened to knock him over. The parchment leapt from Fakir's hands, flying up into the gale that arose.

"What's happening!" Fakir cried, clenching his quill in an upraised fist.

Autor felt a chill spill down his spine. "The Story is flowing backwards!" he cried into the wind. He didn't know how he knew, but it was unmistakable. The boy felt a pull around his middle, forcing him to start walking backwards.

"What?" Fakir demanded.

"Stop it!" Autor said, unable to resist the pull. Fakir was almost out of sight. "Use your pen to stop it! Fakir!"

Autor felt his feet stop, and found himself plunged into darkness. He turned, trying to find his bearings, and saw a massive, moving gear framing him--the younger him, about eight years old--curled up in his father's lap with a well-loved book.

"Once upon a time, a man died," his father said, his rich baritone flowing over Autor. He wasn't really reading, but it was a story all the same. "What the man wrote was a story about a happy prince who loved everyone and was loved by everyone."

The younger boy opened his mouth to say something, but his father shushed him, turning the page to show off the illustrations. "The people fought amongst themselves, each wanting to be the only one loved and the evil ravens pecked at their hearts.

"The more the people loved the prince and wanted to save him the better their feelings tasted to the ravens," he read softly, wrapping his strong arms around his boy. "Finally, the ravens thought they would like to eat the heart of the prince, more delicious than any other."

"But they didn't eat him, did they, Papa?" the child said, wide-eyed.

"No," his father said, smiling, and the Spinner watching him felt a pang in his chest. "But the most important words of this story were..."

"'Once upon a time, a man died'," the boy chirped.

"That's right," his father said, tweaking his nose. "Herr Drosselmeyer, who had the power to make his Stories come to life."

"And they all feared him for it," the boy said, and the older Autor was surprised at the bitter tone.

"So what did they to do him?" his father asked.

"They cut off his hands!"

His father tickled the boy's sides, and he laughed--a bright, clear sound. "That's right! He never finished Prinz und Rabe, did he?"

"No!"

Autor had seen enough. Thankfully his past was done with him; the gear shifted and the darkness dissipated, planting him in front of his house. If he wished, he could enter, find the book, and speak to his father.

He turned on his heel to walk back to Fakir.