#But let's assume they did know. Fakir would have to figure out so much has changed in 2002 Germany compared to whatever time they were in

[diathadevil]

Do you ever think about how Fakir, after him and Ahiru finally broke everything that kept the town of Goldkröne in the ghostly hands of its writer, after they finally have some air of peace over the town finally being able to live in its intended early 2000s environment, that Fakir still feels at times like it's not real and that for a while he fears that if he closes his eyes it'll be back in Drosselmeyer's control. Like it just doesn't feel real to him during that first year of calm, until he feels the dull pain on his recovering hand injury and Ahiru who follows him without a pendant anywhere to be found.

He doesn't feel it's real, the calm finality of this town, but he makes sure to feel the scar on his hand. And he makes sure to hold the little duck and realize that she is who she has always been. Him and the town are finally living peacefully.

[taroshi-chan]

Prompt: I don’t rightly remember, but I know it didn’t have anything to do with what I wrote… Pairing: Fakir x Ahiru For: @doggy-yasha (look what you made me do! @-@) Word Count: 2170

I have no title for this story yet, and I’m really bad with names so feel free to suggest suitable names if you’d like.

Chapter One

Once upon a time there was an old man who lived in a castle.    He loved stories. Epic stories. Fanciful Stories. Tragic stories. He loved them so much he decided to create his own. Normally this would not pose much of a problem. He was not, however, a normal man. One by one the old man’s stories began to come true. As the years went by, his stories spilled out of the castle and into the neighbouring town. People started to disappear or…change. Terrified for their safety, the townspeople killed the old man. The stories stopped. All was well for a time. But the old man had left something behind in the wake of his death… Alone. In his castle. — Fakir was upset. He was cold, tired and hopelessly lost. But mostly upset. It had been raining for the better part of a week now, with no sign of letting up. The man pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he continued his trudge through the thick mud that the road had become. He cursed the man who had given him directions in the last town he’d passed through. “You just follow this road down a couple miles, you can’t miss it!” Apparently he could. “You’ll come across a sign pointing you in the direction of the town from there.” There had been no sign. What there had been though was a fork in the road. No signage marked either direction.There had been no discernible difference to either path, each had just led through more forest. So Fakir took an educated guess and chose the path leading to the right. Which led him to his current and wet predicament. He had been on this same road for days with no town, no signs and no people in sight. The man grumbled to himself as he stopped once again to pull his boot out of the grasping mud with a splosh! ‘I’ve had it now. I’m going to get up this hill and then I’m going to go to sleep in the rain and if I wake up and it’s still raining I’m going to kill-wait, what’s that? Is that…’ A light. Fakir stared at his hungrily. It was close. Less than a mile, he thought. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself towards it. — Over an hour later Fakir stumbled into a small town. An actual. Freaking. Town. He could have kissed the ground in joy if it weren’t wet, muddy and entirely beneath his dignity. He followed the sounds of music and laughter to a building he could only assume was the local inn. He hoped he was correct. The building had a rather large picture of a laughing goat over the door. It was debatable. He stepped inside. The noise did not stop upon his arrival but there was a noticeable dim in overall sound. Ignoring the many pairs of eyes that followed him curiously, Fakir made his way over to the bar. A portly older man sporting a moustache was cleaning a glass with a dirty rag. He glanced up and gave the newcomer a once over before dipping his head to nod in greeting. Fakir returned the nod. “Good evening.” The bartender eyed him warily, “Can I help you, sir?” Fakir pulled his hood down and pushed wet hair out of his eyes in one smooth motion, “I need a room.” “Certainly. For how long will you be staying with us?” A gold coin slid across the bar top. “Indefinitely.” Fakir received a genuine smile from the bartender, “Welcome to Kinkan Town, mister…?” “Sir Lohengrin.” The man’s brows rose in surprise. His gaze dropped to the sword no longer hidden beneath layers of wet cloak. “You a knight, then?” Something flickered in the man’s dark dark eyes. “That’s right.” “Huh. Don’t remember the last time we had a knight in town…” He offered Fakir another smile,  which Fakir did not return. “Don’t rightly remember the last time we had a visitor neither. Enjoy your stay, Sir Knight. I’ll get Missy here to show you to your room.” Missy turned out to be a small, plump and overly flirtatious girl. He followed her up the stairs to a small warm room. Fakir pointedly ignored her offer to “warm his bed for him” and shut the door in her face. He sighed in relief. Making sure the door was securely locked, he set down his belongings, shed his damp clothing and fell into the soft, warm bed. — He woke to the smell of slightly charred bacon and sunlight. Though his belly rumbled in appreciation of the former, it was the latter that caught his attention. He rose and went to the tiny window, basking in the warmth that streamed through. He could see most of the town from here, as the inn was one of the only buildings with two stories; low houses, cobbled streets, greenery, and what was clearly the market district. And a wall. A rather large wall, in fact.

Fakir frowned. He didn’t remember passing through a gate to get into the town. Shaking his head, he turned from the window and stooped to retrieve his clothes. He grimaced; he really should have thought to lay them out properly last night. They were still very damp. He sighed and tugged them on reluctantly. At least it wasn’t raining anymore. — Once he was dressed and had stowed his belongings in the chest at the end of his bed (excepting, of course, his sword which he belted in place) he made his way downstairs and towards the heavenly smells it encompassed. Accepting a share of bacon and a small loaf of bread from a different serving girl (her name was Wendy, she told him shyly) he made his way over to an empty table to tuck in. As he ate, and oh it was good, he thought about his next move. He should get a lay of the land, figure out where exactly he was in relation to the town he had just come from. Really, he thought to himself disgustedly, how could I have gotten so lost? The man had been so sure of himself and his directions. And how did I miss that wall? This was the thought that bothered him the most, so much so that when Wendy came to take his empty plate away he startled her by grabbing her wrist. “Wendy.” “Y-yes?” “Why does your town have a wall that large around it?” Puzzled, she asked, “A wall?” “Yes, a wall. That huge thing that, by the looks of it, surrounds your entire town.” “There is no wall, sir.” She gave him another worried look, “Are you all right?” Fakir stared at her and slowly released her. “Yes, I’m fine. I must be mistaken…” Wendy nods and picks up his empty plate, backing away slowly. — Finished with his meal, and subsequent brooding, Fakir makes his way towards the marketplace. He weaves through the crowd for a while in search of something specific, ah, there it is. He walks up to a very large woman who is busy cross stitching what appears to be a tap dancing pig. He frowns at her nonsensical picture and clears his throat. The woman looks up from her work, looking nonplussed at the interruption. “What.” “Er…” The woman raises a brow at the knight, tapping her foot impatiently. “Have you got any maps for sale?” The woman eyes him, “Sure. Got one of the town here somewhere.” Fakir glances at the piles of rolled paper on her table. A hand flapped away his scrutiny, “Them’s just pictures.” The knight gives her a dubious look but waits patiently while she digs through them. She hands him a large scroll, which he immediately opens. A picture of Kinkan Town greets him, with cheery letters discerning the local shops and areas of interest. He turns back to the woman with a frown, “Do you have one of the surrounding area too?” The lady scoffs at him, “What do I look like, a map maker? That’s the best I got. If you want it, it’ll be two coppers.” Fakir swallows his annoyance and fishes out her money, which she took with undisguised glee. He must have been her only customer in a while. He glances back at her tap dancing pig. No wonder there. He spends another copper on a sausage and cheese pastry on his stroll back through the market, which tastes just about as heavenly as his earlier meal. He comes into the town square, and sat down in the greenery, under a large tree. He looks around to take in the shops, the market and the bustle of people as they made their way through both. A thought comes to him and he unrolling his new map, looking over the edges of the town. No wall there either. Fakir’s frown deepens. That doesn’t make any sense. Wendy didn’t seem to know what he was talking about either. He glanced up to confirm that the wall was still there. It was. Mystified, he shook his head and turned back to examine the map. The town took up most of the scroll, and seemed to be nestled in a small dense forest. There was even a lake. And a castle. A castle. How long has it been since I’ve stepped foot inside a cast- Fakir squelched the thought before it could take root. A castle, hm? He checked for its name but found nothing; it was unmarked. He’d never heard of any lordlings presiding over any land in this area before. Though he didn’t really know where this area was, so it could be possible that he was in a recognizable location after all. Fakir stared at the map. It did its best to stare back. Decision made, he rose with fluid grace. Tucking the map securely into his belt, he set off in the direction of the castle. — Well. It was a castle all right. Or rather, used to be. High dark walls with what looked like fire-char marking it, providing it with a much darker ambiance. Tall, narrow windows of stained glass. Some of the windows were broken completely, colourful shards of glass twinkled like gems in the unadulterated sunlight. Debris littered the expansive grounds, and Fakir picked his way cautiously through it to the steep steps of the main entrance. The double doors were still intact, dark and sturdy wood that gave grudgingly to the knights’ shoulder. “What happened here?” Fakir muttered to himself. There was more fire damage inside, the scorched rugs and blackened walls attested to that.   Despite the disaster the castle presented him with, Fakir felt a deep fascination with it. And a unconscious sense of familiarity. He spent the next couple hours exploring. He explored the many chambers, which turned out to be mostly intact. He explored the communal rooms, kitchen and the ballroom, with its wall of mirrors. He even doubled back to explore the grounds, which would have been lovely if not for the wreckage. He was following  a long narrow corridor and the events of a tapestry about an old man which concluded halfway in charred threads when he noticed the door. Had he missed one? Come to think of it, he didn’t remember seeing this hallway either in his first go-through. It was smaller than the others, and to his surprise had appeared to take no damage from the fire that had ravished the rest of the structure. He placed a hand upon it; it felt rough and solid beneath his fingers. Slowly he pushed the door open. Fakir stepped into a cozy and apparently lived-in room. A small fire was crackling merrily in the hearth, bathing the room in warm golden light. He took in the thick orange and gold rugs, the vanity table and attached mirror, and the tiny window that shed little light and appeared to overlook the surrounding forest. There was also a small four post bed with many blankets piled upon it haphazardly. It looks like a nest, Fakir thought to himself. And it was moving. The knight narrows his eyes as he inched cautiously closer to the bed, craning his neck to peer into the folds of cloth. It was a duck. Fakir blinked and frowned. A duck? What was it doing here? Why does it look like it… Lives here. Frowning, the man takes a closer look at the bird. It was small, he thought. Small and bright yellow. It was quacking in a muttering way as it shifted and settled around it’s perch. A single bright feather stuck up like a cowlick at the top of its head. Fakir snorted at the sight. The sound was enough to startle the duck, who turned its head quickly in the direction of the unfamiliar sound. Fakir froze as he met and held the ducks gaze, its eyes huge. Huge and blue. Fakir looked at the duck. The duck looked at Fakir. “Hello,” it said.

To be continued…