Princess Tutu (Fakir/Ahiru) [Week 7, Prompt 12] Title: Asleep in a Memory, Dreaming Author:lanerose Rating: PG Word Count: 450 Author's Note: May be more of this later... ^^;;; Summary: Fakir thought he was dreaming when she came through the door.
Fakir thought he was dreaming when she came through the door. She poked her head around the door first, and her too bright red hair reflected the early morning light, swept up in a neat bun just as it had been when he first saw her over seventy years ago. He sat up, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. She didn't disappear, but opened the door all the way and stepped into the room.
"Fakir," she said. She smiled at him. He didn't understand. She could not have been there – not when some thirty years ago he had laid to rest a golden duck that danced ballet and answered to her name. Not when he had visited her grave each day, to give her a flower or tell her a story. Not after all this time. He drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his hands.
"Fakir," she said again, more insistently. Her soft, warm hands grabbed at one of his, pulled it away from him.
He looked up. She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful. Not quite like this, though. She had been a duck who should have been a princess. Now - - Now she was a queen, who might have been a swan. She stood tall beside his bed, a white silk gown draped gracefully over her delicate frame. She kissed his hand gently before letting it go. His wrinkled and withered hand, against her young and silken lips. He swallowed hard.
Her hands came together before her heart, and his half-blind eyes welled up with tears. She stepped back, and circled her hands together before offering one of them to him. He stared up at her.
He put his hand, his scarred hand, in hers, and rose to his feet. It was no longer scarred, though, as he looked at it. The wrinkles and spots that time had created vanished as if they had never been. Fakir felt lighter than he had been, maybe ever, as he stepped towards her.
"I missed you, Fakir," she whispered. His hearing, though – he marveled that the sound was as clear as if she had yelled it at the top of the lungs, for the whole world to hear. He flushed, and turned his back on her.
"Don't say embarrassing things."
"Fakir!" She slammed one of her tiny ineffectual fists against his back, and might have tried again with the other if he hadn't turned to catch it, laughing. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. Her fingers relaxed, and laced together with his. She smiled at him.