My Smallest of Dreams.
upon a time, a nightingale fell in love with a rose. It was lucky,
because the rose loved him too. Day after day, the nightingale would
sing to the rose and the rose would listen, as sweet and pure as the
snow as it falls from the sky. But the rose was sad, because
her love was incomplete. If only I could be red, - she'd sigh,
velvet soft petals reaching for the nightingale - if only I could be
red, then I'd love you completely. Fear not, - said the
nightingale, promising his love - If that is your wish, I will give
you your red rose.
But the rose was sad, because her love was incomplete.
If only I could be red, - she'd sigh, velvet soft petals reaching for the nightingale - if only I could be red, then I'd love you completely.
Fear not, - said the nightingale, promising his love - If that is your wish, I will give you your red rose.
He wakes up past midnight, a flurry of feathers over his face and the excited quacks of Ahiru everywhere. She barely waits for him to open his eyes before she waddles to the window and jumps onto the sill, flapping her wings.
It's cool and soon it'll be cold, colder still. Fakir smiles, edges soft and sweet as the first flakes of snow fall down.
Ahiru looks up at him, shivering with excitement. She quacks again, and again, and Fakir shakes his head as he goes to pick up a jacket and his boots.
Once they are outside, Ahiru cuddles closer to him inside his jacket, silent, but her eyes are wide upon the sky and the picture their town makes now that snow covers it. Fakir touches her head with his fingers, a soft, lingering caress and he wonders if this is the first time this town has seen snow.
Tales come through his fingers, of the Prince and his Princess. He reads those aloud to Ahiru, and he is sure she smiles too, listening how with his return, the whole kingdom who had remained asleep for so long blooms with life once more, at long last spring.
Here he blows on his fingers, wipes the ink from them before he strokes Ahiru's white feathers before he writes again.
... together they danced, even though their love for the Knight and Duck remained.
"Idiot," Fakir tells the paper, thinking of Mytho's smile and Rue's voice, and when he looks at Ahiru, he blushes a little for the fond look she's giving him, saying that he can't fool her, he can't fool her at all.
Ebisu-san gives him - and Ahiru - gingerbread cookies, and insists that its a gift even though she doesn't remember why. Fakir thanks her and Ahiru quacks her appreciation, and Fakir insists on paying for the cocoa for him and Autor, taking a sip to let his lips warm.
The children play in the snow and Ahiru quacks, happy and cheerful, taking the crumbs from his hands. The people around town don't really remember what they never really knew, it just remains a dream within a dream from an old song they might have known. He tells Autor that it's alright for a little mystery to remain, because without mysteries there wouldn't be a dream. Autor sighs as he pushes his glasses up, silently calling him a fool.
That's alright. Ahiru is laughing anyway as she ruffles her feathers and nips gently at his hand, calling him a fool, too.
Later, Fakir reads out loud, Ahiru nestled in his lap, her head against his forearm. Karon humms a senseless something that makes Fakir's eyelids heavy with sleep but he keeps on reading about other countries and other stories, old leyends that Drosselmeyer had nothing to do with.
If he ddreams of Tutu dancing it's alright, because, as always, in his dreams she always returns to Ahiru, and it's always Ahiru there to beam at him, her hand small and soft in his.
His dream is different this time, because Fakir is sure he hears Uzura's voice. "This is love-zura! I know it-zura!"
For all that he can't see her, something feels warm within his chest and he thinks of Edel keeping him alive.
When he wakes up Karon isn't humming anything anymore for all that he left the chimney on. Fakir sighs and tries to stretch.
He wakes up with Ahiru's soft warmth curled against his chest, her hand curled over his shirt, soft curls around her ears, frekles like cinnamon kisses over her face.
Outside, the snowflakes dance for him, and if Fakir's fingers itch to write, they are itching much more to curl around her and keep this wish for as long as he can.