#lyriette

He hears the gunshots and the world goes quiet.

The papers on his lap scatter like a firework as he leaps from his chair, frantic. It’s too quiet, why is it so quiet? He can see the birds scrambling overhead and their squalling is thunderous, but it’s too quiet why is it so quiet why can’t he hear her where is she—

And she’s there, on the lake, a small speck of yellow drifting on the rippling waters. Tendrils of red swirl around her, bleed into the inky blue of the lake like watercolor, and the world is still so, so quiet as he sees her start to sink. He can’t hear himself screaming, but he feels it tear from his throat, raw and quaking as he hurls himself into the water after her.

“Ahiru!” He howls, and the fear seeps into his very skin. “Ahiru!”

She turns to him with dull blue eyes, still wide in shock, and utters a shaky quack. He scoops her carefully into his hands, and why is there red—so much red, too much red dear God above, it’s everywhere—and makes for the shore.

There is no time for fury, no time to react to the angered shouting of the hunters behind him, there is no time at all for anything. Every step he takes is too slow, every breath too shallow. He needs to go faster, faster, faster. He begs her to hold on, please God, hold on, and tries to ignore just how cold she feels.

000

When he arrives at Autor’s house, Fakir is in hysterics. He does not bother to knock, nearly breaking down the door in his hurry. The young man is seated in his usual spot right beyond the entryway and turns with a reprimand ready to strike from his tongue, but when he sees the wild look in Fakir’s eyes and the puddle of red on the floor beneath him, he quickly clears his desk and instructs him to lay Ahiru across it.

Fakir stumbles in his haste and tries to set her down as gently as possible. Her small chest heaves frantically, pained whimpers filling the room. Tears well in Fakir’s eyes as he gently strokes her feathers with a trembling hand, whispering soothing words to her as Autor clamors around in sad the kitchen.

“You’ll be okay,” Fakir says, and he fights to keep his voice from cracking. “You’ll be okay.”

Ahiru’s eyes seem duller than before as she looks at him, and Fakir has to bite his lip until it nearly bleeds to swallow the panicked cry that bubbles up his throat.

It is then that Autor comes rushing back in with towels and hot water and a first aid kit, and banishes him to the other side of the table.

“You may not want to watch this,” Autor warns as he pulls a pair of tweezers and a needle from the kit.

“I’m staying,” Fakir says fiercely. “I’m not going to leave her.”

“Suit yourself,” Autor says, but the words have none of his usual bite. He focuses intensely at cleaning around the wound, dabbing at her chest as gently as he can without being cursory.

Ahiru lets out a few small cries, and Fakir feels his heart cracking with every one. He strokes her head with his fingers, whispering words of comfort to her as Autor turns her over to dress the wound.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” He says. He repeats it like a mantra, but by the time Autor begins to dress her wound he’s not sure if he says it more for her or for himself.

000

After almost half an hour she is stitched up and wrapped in a thick layer of gauze, asleep in a makeshift bed of blankets and pillows tucked inside a small basket. The two young men are seated nearby, cups of tea cooling on the table beside them. Fakir has yet to take his eyes off of her.

“It went clean through, so at least we didn’t have to deal with that.” Autor murmurs, reaching for his cup. His voice is quiet but it’s like thunder with Fakir’s shot nerves. “I’m not a doctor, Fakir.”

“I know.” He says after a moment.

“I’ve only read about anatomy before, and even then it’s mostly been on humans.”

“I know.”

Autor goes quiet, and Fakir draws in a breath. The tension is palpable, crackling and low in the stillness of the room. The clock on the wall chimes the hour. His shoulders tense.

“Fakir,” Autor says, and the hesitation makes Fakir as taut as a piano wire. “I’m not going to lie to you. It…it didn’t look very good. Maybe you should—”

“Don’t say it.” Fakir snaps, voice low. “Don’t you dare say it, Autor.”

Autor sets his cup down with a frown. “Look, all I’m trying to do is help. I understand how you feel. I don’t want her to die any more than you do—”

Fakir flies to his feet so quickly that the chair topples over, clattering loudly on the floor. He swoops in on Autor like a bird of prey, menacing. He grabs the other boy by the collar and shakes him.

“No you don’t. You don’t have any idea what I’m feeling right now.” He hisses, jabbing a finger towards the desktop, still smeared with dried blood. “Imagine if it were Rue on that table.”

Autor pales instantly. It’s a cruel blow to make, but Fakir can’t bring himself to feel sorry for making it. Autor looks down towards where Fakir’s hand is wrapped tightly in his shirt, and places his hand on it.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

Fakir releases him, staggering back to right his seat. This time he places it directly beside Ahiru’s basket. After a while, he murmurs, “Me too.”

000

“She shouldn’t be moved right now, and since I figure that you’re not going anywhere as long as she’s here, so here’s some bedding.” Autor had said before presenting him with a thick quilt and a well-worn pillow. “I know it’s a futile request, but try to get some sleep.”

Futile was a good choice of wording, for Fakir lays awake on the floor that night beside her basket, counting the seconds between her breaths. Each in and out makes his heart skip faster, and he has to fight to keep from sitting up to check if her chest is still moving. The hard wood floor is uncomfortable against his back, but he insisted on staying by her side.

Thoughts of their earlier conversation claw at the inside of his head like a wild beast.

“She should be okay, if she makes it through the night.”

The ‘if’ weighs heavily in his stomach, settles like lead in the marrow of his bones. If. Never in Fakir’s life has he hated a word so strongly. But with each ragged breath Ahiru takes, that dreaded word threatens to crush him more and more. It makes him want to scream, makes him want to cry and rage and thrash, because never before has Fakir felt so useless.

How long must he sit by and watch those he loves suffer? How many times will he have to wait and pray and simply hope that things will work out in the end? His hope literally lies dying in a bundle of blankets beside him, and yet he lies on the floor and does nothing. Forever the knight who could never protect, forever the character too weak to play his role. Tears burn his eyes, and a sob grows thick in his throat. How many promises must he break?

A soft, pained quack floats down from Ahiru’s basket, and he sits up to check on her.  He can see in the dim light from the window that she’s begun to bleed through her gauze, and he reaches down in a panic to check her breathing. She’s panting, breaths shallow and ragged and strained, and Autor’s words echo in his mind.