Princess Tutu ~ Träumerei

KAPITEL NEUNZEHN: Grievous Prayers Part 1: Love in a Mist

Fakir let the flames he had stoked awake slowly hypnotise him, cautiously draw the rawness of his Rage to the surface.

He felt his heart reach out for the discarded shard, sensing it also calling back to him hesitantly. It appeared to shiver in a soundless, anxious voice, so true to its nature.

His eyelids grew heavy as he concentrated. He let them fall and close. The vision of light still remained, although it began to change properties in a way one could comfortably describe as fantastical – the fire danced to its own imaginary tune, defying all physical laws, bending and twisting with no regard to gravity or form, and glowing in a spectrum of colours both warm and cold. The flames' hues alternated first between violets and greens, after a while turning back to aggressive reds, joyful yellows and alluring oranges, only to change to white and bluebell last, finally fizzling out into a moment of darkness, filled with an eerie whistle of sudden gust.

Fakir felt the ground beneath his feet shift. The sensation of frigid, damp dew pressing into every inch of the exposed skin of his face and arms erased all remnants of the fire's warmth, as he made to open his eyes and look around him.

Expectedly, the Swan Lake's wild banks stretched before him, overgrown with weeds and a variety of lakewater flora. The air was crisp and clear, contrary to the image of reticent mist and suffocating concealment he had come to expect of the Dreamscape. There was a light breeze tangling in his hair, and disturbing the waters gently. Underwater plant life and scurrying fish were visible beneath the shimmering ripples. The sun above the treetops swayed eastward, painting the view with a layer of light suggestive of a cloudless forenoon. All of it lulled one in a sensation of subtle nostalgia.

Just as it occurred to him that the change in the usual scenery had perhaps been caused by the Blood's possession of Cowardice, Fakir noticed that the clothes which he had been wearing had transmogrified into a russet cloak and a lightly layered spring suit. His hair was tied back in a high ponytail at the back of his head, allowing the wind to tickle pleasantly at the seldom exposed nape of his neck. His hands were gloved, one pressing a bundle of books into his side, and the other holding a paper bag which he knew contained a selection of bread and seeds.

Before he could make any sense of anything, he was on his way to a moss-covered wooden pier which stood idly to his right. Prompted by an alluring sense of habit, he pressed through the familiar path in the damp grass.

A light pressure, almost insignificant, settled gently, as if it were a thin veil, on his mind.

Feeling much like he had forgotten something very important, he pensively made himself comfortable, letting his booted feet hang off the edge of the pier towards the Lake's depths. He lowered his belongings beside him, placing them on top of a large handkerchief he had in the meantime produced from the inner pocket of his cloak, and pulled open one of the books.

Its pages were blank. The book had a portable quill attached to it, which he tugged off, and shook to make the ink flow.

As soon as the tip of the quill touched the empty paper, he watched a story take form on the page. It spoke of a gosling bred in captivity, and longing for a single free flight. The gosling promised her keepers that she would never run, only to in the end betray that vow, and escape one moonlit night, flying off into a starclad dream.

A soft, somewhat bitter smile formed on Fakir's lips, as his fingers gingerly glided across the page into which the black ink seeped to dry. He then tugged at the paper, detaching the sheet with the story from the rest of the book. After holding it up to the sky for a minute or so, he lowered it carefully into the water under his feet, letting the page soak and the ink smudge. Finally, he released the paper to sink, slowly and dazedly, feeling suddenly somewhat at odds with the contents.