by Lorena
VICTORY
Proving to be as stubborn as anyone else could be, Quatre insisted that he join his family for their Christmas dinner in spite of the pain in his injured arm and the fever that now had him in its unrelenting hold. His temperature had gone down, happily enough, but it merely stabilized itself to a fairly uncomfortable level still, causing the weakened boy to sweat profusely in spite of the shivers.
He told no one of his current condition and found it easy enough to feign a greater energy level than what was there though he did make it a point to keep his distance from his siblings once they’d seated themselves at the table.
Christmas was a beloved tradition, after all, and he’d be damned if he were to be forced to miss one Christmas dinner with his family. Dorothy’s suitor was present—as charming and as amiable as always, entertaining everyone with some of the most fascinating anecdotes based on his travels (he was a university student and had been touring Europe extensively). Drosselmeier stayed with them as well, taking care to keep an eye on the stricken boy and smiling sympathetically at the occasional petulant response from Quatre whenever his mother would begin fussing over him.
“You really do know how to take care of yourself, don’t you, Quatre?” the man would ask, nodding with a wink.
The family gathered in the drawing-room for a lively round of post-Christmas dinner warmth and conversation, with everyone at their best behavior (for Dorothy’s sake). While their parents and their guests mingled, Duo amused himself by playing with his toys by the castle that Drosselmeier gave them, and Quatre, urged by a quiet voice in the back of his mind, walked over to the toy cabinet and peered in.
The Nutcracker stood on a fairly low shelf, looking almost brand new. Quatre opened the doors and took it out to inspect it carefully, his mind whirling with a cornucopia of fantastic images created by Princess Relena’s story, sending a strange thrill through his body at the possibilities.
And before he even realized it, he was addressing the doll by a name with which he’d already grown familiar.
“I would, if I could, Heero, get you out of this rut. But I honestly don’t know how.”
The doll merely stared back at him, its large blue eyes glassy and dead. Quatre shrugged helplessly, his logical side taking over as it started to chide him about the insanity of holding a conversation with a doll. He was about to place the Nutcracker back in its shelf when he felt a voice quietly speak in his mind.
This is my battle to win, Quatre.
The boy’s eyes widened as he froze, staring at the wooden form in his hand.
You’ve done what you could. There’s nothing more for you to do.
Quatre looked up and glanced nervously over his shoulder and found his family much too immersed in what they were doing to notice anything amiss with him. He turned his attention back to the doll.
“I think my fever’s affecting my mind,” he muttered.
And whether it was the trick of the light or other inexplicable forces that were at work here, for a fleeting moment, Quatre thought he glimpsed the doll smile softly at him, its eyes darkening with gratitude and affection.
Rest yourself then. And don’t fret over me.
“I will,” he stammered, absently running a finger down the side of the doll’s face and feeling an odd yet pleasurable warmth course through him. He felt his face burn, and he quickly placed the doll back on the shelf before pausing.
“You’re too low there,” he said without knowing why. Taking the doll once again, he moved it to one of the higher shelves instead.
And as his eyes rested on the wooden figure, he blinked. “Where’s your sword?”
The Nutcracker’s weapon wasn’t in its usual place. Quatre frowned as he closed the doors. He turned in time to see Drosselmeier stand up and bid his family goodnight.
“Godpapa, where’s the Nutcracker’s sword?” he asked. “Did you lose it when you fixed the doll today?”
“Lose it? Heavens, no!” the old man replied, surprised. “Our prince is armed and should always be armed for combat!”
“It’s gone. I don’t know where it is.”
“Indeed! It must’ve been dropped somewhere. You’ll find it, I’m sure. Now I’ll have to hurry home, dear boy. I expect you to be well tomorrow when I return.”
With that, Drosselmeier mussed Quatre’s hair before shuffling off, escorted by the boy’s father.
The sword, it seemed, was nowhere to be found, and Quatre had run the servants ragged by asking them to search the rooms thoroughly, focusing all their efforts around the drawing-room area. But when nothing but disappointment met his inquiries, the boy was hustled to bed by his now irate mother, protesting vehemently.
“What do you think you’re doing running around, searching for a toy sword while down with the fever?” she demanded as she ordered him to bed. “You’ll never get well at this rate, Quatre!”
The boy desisted from making any further comments, knowing the futility, and he allowed himself to be fussed over yet again. He crawled under his blankets, the effects of his fever and his wound once again making themselves felt as he almost collapsed weakly against his pillows, groaning wretchedly.
“See? Foolish boy.”
“Good night, mama.”
His mother sighed heavily as she drew the last and the thickest layer of covering over her son’s warm, shivering form, leaning down to kiss his forehead before gently admonishing him and leaving.
Quatre lay on his back, drowning under the weight of the layers that were piled atop him, feeling the sweat break out yet again. The discomfort was keeping him from relaxing, and he tossed and turned in bed, muttering quiet oaths on occasion as any and all attempts at rest constantly eluded him.
It was several minutes later, when the entire household had finally gone to bed, when the boy finally felt the initial tugging of sleep in his chest, and he sank under his covers, yawning and closing his weary eyes…
…only to open them wide at the sound of faint scratching somewhere in his room.
He held his breath, not quite knowing whether or not to trust his own ears, but he continued to listen all the same, his heart beating more and more rapidly and erratically. He felt a growing sense of dread pervade the air in his room.
The scratching continued, seeming as though it was coming from every wall in the room, and Quatre turned his head this way and that in a vain effort to pinpoint the exact direction from where those ominous sounds were coming. They eventually stopped, plunging the room in a tense silence, which was interrupted by his own heavy breathing.
Nothing happened, and Quatre stared at his bedroom ceiling, still waiting. He was beginning to feel an odd heaviness press down on his person, as though he was being forced into sleep, and it took everything he had to shake himself awake, puzzled and more than a little alarmed.
“What’s happening?” he whispered sleepily, blinking desperately. The curtain of sleep now descending on him felt too strange; it wasn’t the usual gentle succumbing of a tired body to the call of rest. It was more of a heavy drug of sorts, an intricate, unbreakable net that only closed in on him even more when he struggled to extricate himself from its hold.
He suddenly felt something move on his bed—a quiet scurrying from one corner near his feet toward his head, a heavy body pressing on the bedclothes as it traversed the blankets to come to a stop on the boy’s chest.
Quatre gave a little start and a gasp of horror, his barely focused eyes fixed on the ghastly figure of the Mouseking standing on the covers, staring down at him with a triumphant grin breaking across all of his seven faces.
He brandished his sword and held it out, the blade lightly yet dangerously settling on Quatre’s cheek. The boy couldn’t move a muscle.
“What do you think of my sleeping spell?” the Mouseking growled, all seven heads speaking at the same time, the words rumbling out of seven mouths in horrifying unison.
“I should’ve known that the Nutcracker prince would be soliciting help from the outside. How typically cowardly of him. But I don’t have to worry about that tonight, my dear boy.”
Quatre smirked defiantly. “You’re so assured.”
“Of course I am. What will you do to save him?”
“Anything.”
“Ah, but you can’t do just anything now, can you? Hmm? You’re too weak. You’ve got nothing to offer.”
“I can still fight beside him.”
“Without a sword? I doubt it.”
The boy gulped. Did the Mouseking hide the prince’s sword somewhere? Quatre could barely make his brain function as he struggled to keep one step ahead of his enemy, trying desperately to find ways of outwitting the monster that was now leering at him.
The sword started to trail down Quatre’s cheek, feeling both cold and sharp against his skin. The Mouseking chuckled.
“There’s only one thing staying my hand right now; otherwise, I’d surely have run you through the throat with my sword. I’ll spare you—only because I have other plans for you once I’m done cutting that confounded prince into ribbons.”
The beast waved his other hand before Quatre’s dazed, heavy eyes, the weight on the drooping lids increasing, and the boy fought against it with every ounce of strength he had. “I’ll come back for you, boy. Make no mistake about that.”
He burst into shrill laughter, his seven heads breaking out in ghastly grins as seven throats hissed his amusement and triumph. Through the haze, Quatre thought that he could see red foam dribbling from the chin of each head. He felt his stomach turn, but he held his tongue, swallowing painfully. He struggled to raise a weak hand and to grab the monster and kill him right then and there, but the spell proved to be a much greater force with which to contend, and his arm remained at his side and safely tucked under the covers—completely immobile. His fever, moreover, seemed to be exacerbated by the poisonous effects of the spell, and he felt his body awash in the most bitter chills ever to touch it, shivering horribly as sweat continued to bead on his brow. He felt his hair cling in wet clumps on his skin, and the pain in his arm doubled. He could barely stifle a groan of frustration and discomfort.
“Sleep now, little boy,” the Mouseking scoffed, still laughing, and he leapt off Quatre’s chest, bounced on the mattress, and disappeared into the inky darkness of the floor below.
“Oh no, you don’t, you filthy rodent,” the boy hissed, weakly struggling to extricate himself from under the covers.
He managed to by some miracle, and he desperately slid off the bed, his weakened legs unable to hold him up as he stumbled out, sending him falling to the floor and almost missing landing on his nose.
“Ow. Oh, that hurt,” he gasped, coughing and feeling the dull throbbing of pain in his chest, which seemed to be glued to the floor where he landed. Blinking several times and forcing the web of sleep from his mind, he managed to scrape together enough of his old energy back in spite of the heaviness that weighed him down, and he stumbled to his feet.
He felt something sharp sting his foot, and he glanced down to find something gleaming dully in the moonlight. His eyes widened.
“What—the sword?” he whispered as he bent down to pick it up. “It’s the sword!”
The tiny weapon must have fallen off the doll when Drosselmeier came into his room earlier that day. Though something in the back of his mind told him that it might have been purposefully left there for him to find.
Whatever the reason, it really didn’t matter at this point. What did was for him to get the sword to the Nutcracker prince before the Mouseking and his army did.
Quatre stared at the toy incredulously. “I can’t believe I’m involved in a battle between toys and mice. I thought only children…”
But you do believe. That’s what matters. Now go to your prince.
The quiet, hurried urging pushed him out the door in a second, unmindful of his own health and all the painful sensations that wracked his body. He stumbled out, gripping the tiny weapon in his hand as he staggered down the darkened hallway toward the staircase, where he almost pitched forward to certain destruction had he not clung to the balustrade with every ounce of energy he had left.
He was certain that he was making the most confounded racket as he struggled down the stairs, wincing in pain as he dragged his overtaxed body down. He realized that it would be a matter of time before someone in the household would be roused and so doubled his efforts at getting to the drawing-room.
Half-blind from the pull of sleep and disoriented from the fever that racked his body, Quatre groped his way to the room and stumbled in…
…and fell into a familiar gray haze that suddenly enveloped him, sending him falling in space, his eyes fixed on the sword that grew in his hands.
The haze swirled around him, throbbing and glowing for a moment, before dissipating in a gentle whoosh, and he found himself standing a mere six inches high, a large sword gripped tightly in both hands.
It took him a second or two of staring in stunned silence at the weapon before the familiar sounds of battle assailed his ears. He quickly glanced up and saw, much to his horror, a swarm of mice and dolls locked in deadly combat, filling the air with blood-curdling screeches and war cries. The dolls were a great deal more outnumbered now than they were when the battle began the previous evening, but they fought with a courage of which no other army could ever boast, their bravery now more of a desperation as they defended their liege and their kingdom from what now seemed to be certain destruction.
The Nutcracker prince must be in the thick of things—unarmed at worst.
Quatre immediately threw himself into the battle, running and dodging as much as he could in a frantic effort at saving as much of his energy as he could for him to take his place beside the prince.
Several mice threw themselves in his way, squeaking and hissing, lunging for his throat with their bared fangs and their claws. He swung the sword mightily the moment he’d spot them, feeling the blade slice through their necks or their torsos and sending them toppling over in a bloody heap, where they writhed in their gore as they filled his ears with their dying screams.
“Where is he?” he asked desperately, his eyes scanning the area as he waded through the confusion.
He could hear the Mouseking’s cries, and he tried to use them to guide him, but with the din all around, it proved to be much more difficult to do.
A loud snarl interrupted his frantic thoughts, and before he knew it, he was rolling over in a heap on the floor with a cry, a large mouse clinging to him.
The stars blinded him for a moment as his vision slowly cleared, and he found himself pinned to the floor, both arms immobile as they were held firmly down by the monster that was leering at him. Sharp fangs exposed as it grinned in malicious triumph, saliva dripping off its black lips as it eyed him smugly.
“Time to mar that pretty little face,” it hissed, moving a little on top of Quatre, tearing cries of pain from the boy’s throat as it pressed down on his injured arm. The sword was lying beyond reach, and Quatre’s struggles yielded nothing but shrill laughter and more painful weight on his weakened body. He kicked and bucked and tried clawing at his enemy, but all merely served to intensify the agony that was ripping him in two.
“Hee-hehee! Give me you candy! Out with your cakes, marzipan and sugar-stick, gingerbread cakes! Don’t pause to argue! If yield them you won’t, I’ll chew up Nutcracker! See if I don’t!” it laughed, bending down and pressing its snout against the side of Quatre’s head, smelling the horrified boy. “Give me your sugar toys, give them you must, or else I’ll chew Nutcracker up into dust!” [1]
“You’ll never get him,” Quatre gasped, turning his head in disgust as the mouse continued to sniff him. “Even if you rip me up into shreds—you’re not that strong.”
He pinched his eyes shut and grimaced at the feel of hot, fetid breath against his ear.
“I think I’ll start with that silky little throat of yours.”
Quatre barely managed to open his eyes to catch a glimpse of the mouse opening its jaws wide and making a lunge for his throat when a loud, angry cry sounded nearby, and the heavy, painful weight that pressed him on the floor was suddenly lifted. The boy forced himself to move, rolling his body over until he was on all fours, his body throbbing unbearably, as he crawled frantically toward the sword that remained untouched nearby. He held it tightly and stumbled to his feet, turning to find Dorothy’s favorite Chinese doll locked in hand-to-hand combat with the mouse.
“Go!” the doll cried, glancing over his shoulder as he slashed at his enemy with a graceful, exotic sword now covered in blood. The proud, magnificent doll himself was smeared with blood and filth, his brilliant costume torn in several places. But he continued to fight with an energy that amazed the boy, almost as though he simply fed off the battle. “Run! The prince is near the castle—go to him now!”
Quatre didn’t stay another second. He turned, instincts guiding him as he plowed, hacked, and slashed his way through the angry mass around him. His spirits had found a second burst of energy and strength. He stabbed and cut without mercy, feeding off the anger that was brewing in him and finding a desperate sense of triumph with every mouse he’d fell.
He saw dolls putting up a brave fight everywhere, almost invincible in the way they fended off impossible numbers of their enemies. Mind-boggling ratios of three mice to a doll were nothing, it seemed, and Quatre marveled at their noble desperation, finding strength in their zeal. Mice fell under his hands a great deal more easily than they did the previous night, and he readily threw himself in the thick of things in spite of the pain and fever that continued to gnaw away at his system.
He saw Sally taunt her enemies as she leapt nimbly about, laughing as she wielded her dagger. She was a great deal smaller than most of the warrior dolls, yes, and she wasn’t armed as they were with larger weapons, but she knew how to use her size to her advantage, aiming with deadly precision at throats as she swung her arm in wide, skillful arcs.
Quatre presently found himself near the castle, and on looking around and hacking his way forward some more, he finally caught a glimpse of the Nutcracker prince, fighting the Mouseking at the foot of the table on which perched Drosselmeier’s castle. The prince was armed with a small sword, which was obviously doing more harm than good as it forced him to expend twice more energy to see the same results as he would get from his real sword. And the Mouseking seemed to know it as well, forcing the prince to fight himself to exhaustion before he was weak enough to be finished off in one mighty blow.
Quatre braced himself as he tore onward, his fury rising.
And when he was within earshot, he called out.
“Your majesty!” he cried, turning momentarily to drive the sword into the belly of an oncoming mouse before pulling the weapon out with a disgusted grunt as the creature fell over in a slippery pool of blood. “I have your sword!”
The prince didn’t hear him, his voice being drowned by the harsh clanging of steel and desperate battle cries everywhere.
“Your majesty! Your highness!”
The prince dodged a blow, leaping nimbly out of the way as the Mouseking lunged for him and rolling out of reach. He stared at his enemy, eyes darkened and flashing with fury, and he staggered to his feet to throw himself yet again into the fight. He had a few bruises on his face, and his uniform was torn in several places, but he continued to fight with unrelenting energy.
The Mouseking growled as he turned and swung his sword, narrowly missing the prince’s midsection as the latter jumped back with a cry, the sound of shredding fabric reaching Quatre’s ear as he watched the prince’s magnificent jacket get cut by the blade. Gripping the small sword with both hands, the Nutcracker prince fended off another deadly blow as blade struck blade with a loud, hollow clang.
Exhaustion was making itself known in his face, and Quatre could see that his efforts were weakening slowly. He ran forward, gauging the right moment to intercept the next blow.
It came soon enough.
The Mouseking roared as he was dealt another defensive blow, taking advantage of a second when the prince was about to swing his weapon for a hit and kicking him in the gut. The prince gasped as he tumbled back, coughing and sputtering as he grimaced against the pain, barely able to roll over to dodge the creature’s weapon as it hissed near his head.
“Watch out, Heero!” Quatre cried out without realizing it as he leapt before the Mouseking, deflecting his blow with the sword.
The Mouseking staggered backward and toppled over a mangled body of one of his dead comrades in surprise, allowing Quatre the briefest moment to turn to the stunned prince and give him his sword.
The boy smiled wearily, now growing aware of the horrible pain that wracked his body. He was cut and bruised in several places, and his left arm felt as though it was hanging off his shoulder by a tendon. He was still shivering from his fever, but he didn’t care as he quickly helped the prince to his feet, finally speaking to him face to face.
“I found your sword,” he stammered as the prince stared at him. He quickly handed his weapon over. “I was afraid I’d be too late.”
The Nutcracker prince regarded him in some wonder before he slowly broke out in a quiet smile. Holding his sword firmly, he reached out with his other hand and gently trailed a finger down the side of Quatre’s face.
“Thank you,” he said in a low, firm voice. “You’ve done more than you should’ve for me.”
Quatre smiled a little awkwardly as he took the other sword in his hand, his weakened fingers barely able to clasp the hilt. “I think I’m very much justified.” He paused before adding, “Heero.”
The prince blinked but didn’t say anything to that and simply turned around, moving quickly and planting himself in front of Quatre as the Mouseking rose to his feet, snarling.
“Come on,” the prince said, standing proudly before his nemesis as he raised his sword, pointing the tip at the creature’s throat. “Come and get me.”
The Mouseking roared horribly, all seven of his heads thrown back as a demonic, guttural cry escaped their ghastly jaws and sent several of the mice as well as the dolls freezing where they stood, momentarily cowed by the hideousness of such an animalistic howl. And before the cry could even subside, the beast lunged at the prince, who, in one surprising move, pushed Quatre out of the way and sent the boy falling over backwards behind the safety of a box that was sitting on the floor (an empty container that must have housed a toy for Duo, no doubt).
The stars that hovered before Quatre’s eyes had barely disappeared when his attention was arrested by the snarl of yet another mouse, which had apparently seen him tumble behind the box. Grabbing hold of the smaller sword that the Nutcracker prince had given him, Quatre mustered what little strength he had left and wielded his weapon as he lay on his back just as a mouse came into view, leaping out from nowhere with a shrill cry and baring its teeth.
Quatre impaled the creature just as it almost landed atop him, turning quickly and scrambling to his feet as it fell forward, grasping desperately at the sword and succeeding in pushing it deeper into its body.
The boy was dizzy and felt faint. Now that he’d done what he needed to do, he felt his body rapidly succumbing to the effects of the Mouseking’s spell and his illness. He cried out in pain as he tried to touch his left arm and found that the wound had been reopened from all his exertions, and he was once again bleeding.
Staggering toward the dead mouse, he pulled out the sword with shaking hands and stumbled out, the fog before his eyes rising as he gazed out at the battle that continued to rage.
He could barely make out the prince’s colorful figure as he fought the Mouseking, expertly dodging blows and hacking away at his nemesis with a fury that equaled that of the Chinese emperor earlier. Their voices mingling in a raging torrent of sound, the two fought on, looking as though they were equally matched in both strength and cunning and sending frantic surges of hopelessness in Quatre at the notion that this battle would never end.
The boy could barely lift his sword now as his body continued to shut itself down. He staggered forward a few more paces before finally collapsing in a shivering, feverish huddle. The noise was assailing his weakened senses, and he winced at every shriek, every clang that filled the air, feeling his ears burn. He did listen out for the prince and almost smiled at the sound of his voice as he alternately challenged, taunted, and laughed at his nemesis.
A roar suddenly pierced the din as the Mouseking yelled another war cry. The sound of furious clanging followed as Quatre’s eyes slid shut. The erratic thumping of feet and bodies hitting the floor reverberated through the dark wood. Quatre coughed and felt himself slip away.
“Die, you devil!”
Another loud clanging of steel and then the sound of blade cutting into flesh, muscle, and bone. A bloodcurdling scream followed before the same sound of steel against flesh repeated itself—which was then followed by that of something heavy landing with a sickening thud on the floor. Loud gurgling filled the air, which seemed to stretch on forever before dying off in a shivery wail.
There was a brief, surreal moment of silence as Quatre fought to keep himself awake before a voice called out, shaking in disbelief, “Your highness…”
“I’m all right,” another voice replied with a low, raspy cough. “I’m all right.”
Pandemonium followed as mice let up a cry of defeat, rending the drawing-room air with squeaks and squeals that gradually dissipated into nothingness.
“He made it,” Quatre whispered into the darkness, sighing in relief.
He heard several footsteps hurry toward him, and he felt himself gently raised up and laid against someone’s chest and held there. He opened his eyes, barely able to make out the Nutcracker prince as he bent over him, a light of panic in his eyes. He saw that he had a cut lip and a large, ugly bruise on his forehead, but with all those, he couldn’t help but stare in admiration, and he offered a little smile.
“I knew you’d make it,” he whispered, raising a trembling hand to push some of the prince’s hair from his eyes.
“I need to take you back with me. You’re injured, and you’re ill. Sally can take care of you.”
Quatre shook his head weakly. “Don’t worry about me. I know that when I wake up in the morning, I’ll be back in my bed, the same as before.” He paused, his vision dimming some more. “But I can’t get you back. I don’t know how.”
The prince swallowed, blinking back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”
“You’ve killed the Mouseking…”
“I don’t think that’s enough.”
Quatre shook his head and was about to say something back when Sally appeared beside them, holding out seven crowns to her liege.
“Your highness,” she said gravely. “These are yours, I believe.”
The prince simply stared at them before glancing down at Quatre. “Will you take them, Quatre?” he asked. “Please accept them as tokens of our victory.”
“I will.”
The prince smiled sadly and bent down to kiss his forehead. Quatre sagged against him, feeling a little surge of pleasure and contentment in spite of the regret that was now gnawing at him, and it was all he could do to turn his head just as the prince was pulling away to lightly brush his lips against his.
The fog began to close in on him as he took one final look at the Nutcracker prince.
“Your kingdom must look spectacular,” he said, smiling once again.
“It does,” came the quiet, choked reply. “It’s beautiful, and it’s lonely.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“It is. I’m the only one of my kind there.”
Quatre blinked furiously to keep the fog from his eyes but to no avail. “Have you ever done something about it?”
A pregnant pause followed that before the prince broke it with a sad, tentative inquiry. “Will you stay with me then?”
Quatre took a shallow, feverish breath and finally succumbed. And the last glimpse he had of his prince was that of him bending down for a final kiss that he never felt.
CONCLUSION
Quatre’s bedroom was abuzz with activity when he awoke the following morning. Through the dissipating haze in his mind, he felt a hand placed on his forehead and his mother’s anxious voice, demanding to know what was going on with her son.
“He sleepwalked, I’m sure,” she said. “How else could he have ended up in the drawing-room again? And what are all these cuts and bruises on him?”
“He must have fallen against something,” the family doctor replied calmly. It was his hand on the boy’s forehead. “He’s reopened his wound, too. I had to bandage it again, and I’m hoping that it’ll stay protected much longer this time.”
“How’s his fever?”
“It’s steady.”
“Oh, how I want to spank this boy!”
“No, no, my dear. Boys his age can get very restless when they’re forced to stay in one place for too long. Have a little more patience with him.”
“But he’s just making things worse for himself.”
“Just let him be. He’ll recover quickly enough.”
Quatre’s mother sighed heavily, and she shuffled out of the room, leaving the doctor to inspect the boy for some time longer. Quatre feigned sleep in spite of a clear head as he waited for the room to be emptied of adults.
But it didn’t, much to his chagrin, as Dorothy soon appeared, inquiring after him. It was a surprise, really, as his sister had never done this before—voluntarily, that is. She hovered by his bed for some time as the doctor gave her his reassurances, and she bombarded him with several questions as she took her brother’s hand in hers.
Duo appeared next, clambering on his bed and pleading with the doctor to let Quatre play with him, and it was then when Quatre finally opened his eyes.
“I can’t play right now, Duo,” he said weakly, smiling at his anxious brother. “You don’t mind waiting, do you?”
The little boy stared at him, nervously toying with his braid. “I suppose,” he said. “Will you be getting better soon?”
“Soon. I promise.”
Duo nodded. Then he crawled forward, kissing Quatre’s cheek sloppily before scrambling off the bed and leaving the room in a bit of a sulk that made the older boy chuckle.
The last person to see him was Drosselmeier, who looked a lot more anxious than he’d ever seen him. He sat on the bed, gazing down at the boy as the doctor repeated himself for the umpteenth time (and sounding more and more peevish as he did).
“I’ll be all right, Godpapa,” the boy said, squeezing the old man’s hand gently. “I’ve just given myself a bit too much—stress lately.”
“You sure did. Don’t ever send us worrying like that anymore.”
Quatre nodded, his spirits a little heavy.
When his room was finally evacuated and he was left in peace, he turned and stared at the sky outside his window, his mind dredging up memories of the Nutcracker prince and the painful realization that he’d failed him somehow.
“What could I have done to save him?” he murmured in the silence of the room. “Nothing. I was too weak. I couldn’t hold out as long as I should have. The Mouseking was right all along.”
He found no comfort in rest or in sleep, his dreams haunted by remembrances of the battle and his overwhelming sense of helplessness throughout the whole thing. The regret that weighed down on him was oppressive, and he slowly fell into a pensive silence—one that didn’t escape his family.
It took another two days before the fever was finally gone though his arm was still hurt. He was, at least, strong enough to venture out of his room and to spend some time, however limited, in the company of his family downstairs. They tried to entertain him, and he showed them, whenever he was inclined to, anyway, his appreciation for their efforts. He tried to play with Duo whenever he could. He tried to talk to Dorothy and shower her with his approval of her suitor. He tried to stay away from as much trouble as he could for his parents’ sake (especially his mother’s). He tried to be as genial as he could toward guests who frequented his home.
But for all that, however, he still felt that odd sense of loneliness—one that he’d never known till that fateful Christmas evening. And it soon come to such a head that he found himself standing before the toy cabinet on New Year’s Eve, staring sadly at the Nutcracker doll.
He opened up the cabinet and took it out, regarding it with a bitter pang as he ran his finger against the side of its face.
“I’d stay with you, yes,” he said quietly, the words coming out in a choked whisper. “It doesn’t matter where you are. I’d stay with you if you asked.”
He swallowed as he remembered his final moment with the prince. “You did ask, didn’t you?” He offered a small, rueful smile. “Then I suppose I’d be repeating myself if I said yes.” He lifted the doll and planted a light kiss on its forehead.
A sudden blinding flash of light followed that, and the next thing he knew, Quatre was lying on the sofa with his mother well nigh screaming in his ear.
“You’ll be the death of me, Quatre!” she cried, her face red and tear-streaked as she held her son’s hand in hers. “I don’t know what’s come over you with all these fainting spells, but you’ve been worrying me and your father sick these past few days!”
“I’m sorry, mama, but you really shouldn’t worry yourself so much over me,” he stammered weakly, sighing and feeling completely disoriented. “What—what happened now?”
“I don’t know! You tell me! You were up and about one minute and then lying senseless on the floor the next—what do you expect me to do but to worry myself to death over you, you insufferable boy?”
She was weeping and laughing in relief when she spoke, however, and she finally clasped her son tightly against herself, cooing endearments in his ear and demanding that he get better. Quatre felt wretchedly awful at being such a proverbial boil on his mother’s behind, and it was all he could do to promise her that he’d be avoiding fainting spells from this point on.
“Oh, don’t be cheeky,” she retorted, sniffling and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “You’ve no idea how much I worry over you children.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, feeling some shame settle in. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, mama. I’m just…”
What, lonely? Frustrated?
He could only shrug and shake his head and promise his mother for the umpteenth time that he’d take better care of himself.
They were speaking for yet another moment when the door to the drawing-room opened, and Dorothy peered in. “Mama?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Godpapa Drosselmeier’s here,” she said. “And he brought his nephew with him.”
“Nephew?” their mother echoed, rising from the sofa. “I didn’t know he had a nephew.”
“He does. I’ll tell him to come here.”
Quatre’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him, and he abruptly sat up, stunned beyond words and refusing to believe what he was hearing. His eyes flew back to the doll cabinet as he realized that the last moment before his fainting fit, he was standing before it, staring pensively at the Nutcracker doll. He immediately sprang to his feet and darted toward that corner of the room, flinging the doors open and finding the doll gone. He searched the shelves, frantically scanning the dolls there, but it seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
“The Nutcracker!” he cried. “Where is it?”
“What on earth would you be doing, asking for a silly little doll?” Drosselmeier’s voice suddenly filled his ears, and he whirled around, his eyes widening even more at the sight of two figures hovering by the doorway, being greeted by his mother.
It was Drosselmeier, all right, but right beside him, clad in simple coarse clothes in a dull gray and green, an old canvas bag slung over his shoulder, stood the Nutcracker prince—or, rather, Heero. He was regarding the boy with a look of curiosity, wonder, and joy, offering a quiet little smile as their eyes met.
“Quatre, don’t just stand there,” the boy’s mother suddenly laughed. “For heaven’s sake! Where are your manners? We’ve got guests here!”
“What? Oh—right. Sorry.”
The boy walked forward and took his place beside his mother, his eyes not once leaving Heero as his mind continued to absorb what was happening. Temporarily shaken up by disbelief and, to some extent, terror, he could barely string two words coherently together.
“This is Heero Yuy, Quatre,” Drosselmeier said with a bright twinkle in his eyes. “He’s visiting us from Nuremburg.”
“How do you do?” Heero said, coloring a little as he offered a hand, which Quatre took in a daze.
“Visiting?” the boy echoed, his mind whirling and feeling a pleasurable thrill at the touch of the other boy’s hand. “Just visiting?”
“Why, did you want him to stay?” Drosselmeier asked with a knowing smile.
“No one’s asked before,” Heero said almost in a conspiratorial whisper.
Quatre could only stare at him.
“Well now—let’s give the poor boy some refreshments,” Quatre’s mother piped up, unaware of the subtle exchange between the two boys. “Come along now, Godpapa. Duo’s been dying to see you all day. I think he’s going to ask you to make him a fort.”
The two adults walked off, chatting between themselves, leaving the two boys in the drawing-room.
“I’ve got something for you,” Heero finally said once the door closed behind them and before Quatre could put in a word.
He raised a finger to his lips to silence his companion as he pulled down his bag, falling to his knees on the floor as he rifled through it. Quatre knelt down as well, watching in some wonder and listening to some dull clinking sounds from inside the discolored canvas.
Heero presently pulled out, much to his amazement, seven intricately designed gold crowns, handing them over to him.
“These are yours,” he said with an awkward smile as Quatre took them from him. “They’ve always been meant for you.”
“I don’t understand—these—everything was real?”
He raised his eyes and was met by a pair of the most intense, brilliant blue he’d ever seen. In the daylight, they seemed to radiate even more.
“Do you believe?” Heero replied.
“I—think—yes, I do. I do.” Quatre paused when another thought struck him. “Will you be leaving for Nuremburg, though, now that you’ve come back to your uncle?”
“I’d stay if you asked.”
Heero’s smile broadened as Quatre chuckled.
“Will you stay?”
“I’d be repeating myself if I said yes.”
Quatre’s light laughter was momentarily silenced with a gentle, lingering kiss from Heero, who drew him close in a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” he half-whispered, and Quatre smiled through his tears as his eyes fell on the proud, brilliant castle that stood across the room, bathed in the soft glow of the winter sun.
Notes:
[1] taken directly from the text—this was meant to be a taunt made against Quatre, but I think it’s also taken on a more suggestive context (if you know what I mean) o_O