The Nutcracker Bleeds (23 page)

The
nutcracker stepped cautiously to the broken doors and peered out. He glanced
out over the area. The puppets were still in view, but they were simply
standing about, swaying lightly. There were still a great number of them. Other
toys were out of sight, hiding perhaps.

Mindless
abominations
,
Armand thought, but did not voice it.

“What
are they doing?” Anne asked quietly from somewhere behind him.

He
shook his head shortly. “I don’t know.”

Upholding
some ritual?

“Perhaps
we should retreat as well and examine this further,” Brooke suggested.

Eventually,
Armand decided that this was the best idea. They could cut most of the puppets
down as they were standing dumbly in their stupor, but it might be unwise to
lead Anne into it.

“We
need to find a room without windows,” Armand said.

Brooke
gave a short nod of understanding and led them past the staircase and around
the block of the house, finally leading them to a room that was most certainly
the center room on the first floor. The silence was so thick it seemed they
could have reached out and touched it.

“I
think I know another way out of the kingdo–I mean, the larger room,” Brooke
told them once they’d all trailed inside. “I’ll go scout to see if there’s any
way we can get to it.”

Armand
gripped the soldier’s arm as he tried to pass, holding him back with firm
strength. He peered into his brown eyes with sternness at his mouth. He didn’t
have to speak. His message was clear.

“You
can trust me,” Brooke assured him with the same firmness, his expression
unchanging. “You have blood on your face, by the way.”

He
moved past the nutcracker without being restrained. Did Armand trust him?
Armand didn’t trust anyone. However, letting the soldier go out there was
better than allowing him to stay here alone with Anne. The nutcracker rubbed
the rest of the blood free of his face with his coat sleeve.

For
the moment, Armand saw fit to seat himself on the floor. It was quiet save for
the departing footsteps of the foreign soldier. If anything came into the
house, he’d know.

He
then sent his gaze toward the woman in the room with him. She was standing
against the wall, peering off into nothing, her fingers touching her lips in
silent consideration. He knew a look like that when he saw one. She was lost in
deep thought.

He
considered what he’d shown her tonight, and wondered once again if he’d gone
too far. He’d only wanted to make her fully understand the things in this world
that she was dealing with. Perhaps though, he shouldn’t have been trying to
keep her so selfish. He wanted to keep her convinced that he knew what was best
to help her, yes; but not selfish. That sort of thing could turn against him.

Before
he could stop himself, he’d opened his mouth.

“Are
you upset?”

Armand
wasn’t sure why he’d asked or why he even cared to know. He didn’t wish
anything bad to happen to Anne, but what was she to him? Judging her to be the
way she’d lived her life, she was just as much of a puppet as those wicked
pawns outside.

“Hm?”
she asked, looking over to him. It took a short moment, but she finally seemed
to understand what he’d said. Moreover, she was shocked that he’d asked.

“Oh…no.
It’s fine,” Anne insisted. “I was just thinking.”

She
walked to his side, letting herself down onto the floor next to him. Sitting on
her knees, she turned to look into his face, and he could tell instantly that
she needed more than the illustration he’d given her with the princess. She
wasn’t too bothered, but her doubt remained. In fact, it had
grown
.

“I
know you’re right about those toys,” she said. “That they aren’t actually real
and that their lives don’t matter. I told myself that even before you showed
me. I saw it just the same. But something inside me still doesn’t believe
that…”

“Human
compassion?” he interrupted. “You may as well forget about that here. Oddly,
you seem to be gaining it by the more you learn about this world.”

“A
puppet told me he loved me earlier tonight,” she said abruptly. Armand fell
silent and listened. “At the time, I was much too afraid and confused to even
realize the impact of it. Yes, it was completely awful, and of course I don’t
return that feeling, but…”

She
paused and shook her head.

“These
toys may not be able to digest or
bleed
, even, but they do still feel pain.
And they feel joy. Love...no matter how misdirected. The reason the princess
was to be executed was for love, and that soldier that just left us may claim
he feels nothing, but he gave Pirlipat to death because of love. He couldn’t
bear to watch her go on so ignorantly when he could no longer see the falseness
that she saw. I suppose I just wonder: how can things that feel in those ways
be considered
nothing
?”

He
nearly understood what she was saying, but he hadn’t once felt that way
himself. He’d always known that the toys were nothing–ever since he’d first
seen any of them–and that he was not like them. But he had to stifle this for
her. If not, she might have serious qualms with what had to happen later on.
She’d not stopped him from destroying the princess, but would she allow him to
do such a thing again if she was allowed to think on it?

The
nutcracker turned toward her, gripping her shoulders gently and demanding her
full attention.

“Listen
to me,” he said, softer than he had thought himself capable. “The toys did not
ask to feel those things. Those desires and emotions have been forced on them
when they shouldn’t have been. They are alive, yes, but they’re not real.
They’re
not
like you. The things they crave are to no purpose. Returning
them to their inanimate state is doing them a favor.”

He
thought the words appalled her deep inside, but she couldn’t protest. Applied
to people–to humans–the words would have been atrocious. Consider: people all die
eventually, so it’s better to kill them so that they don’t have to struggle
through the obstacles of life? No, that was wrong. But toys were different.
They had no souls.

Did
they? And who was to say that humans did? Her aunt would have argued otherwise.

“There’s
nothing right about what has happened to any of us that are here tonight,” he
went on, and he was including himself. He spoke with passion.
Hatred.
“But there is someone to blame. Once his magic ends, those toys will fall,
lifeless once again. There is no point in trying to save them or preserve them
if it will help yourself.”

She
nodded, finally admitting that he was right.

“I’ll
put it behind me,” she promised.

He
nodded, showing her he was satisfied with that.

“Good
girl.”

Sitting
there, facing each other, Anne was compelled to press her forehead against his,
closing her eyes. Armand allowed this. He wasn’t sure exactly why. Behind his
lips were protests, and his brain was telling him to move away, only his body
would not cooperate. She was so pleasant–but it wasn’t as if he’d just noticed.
He couldn’t have this though. He shouldn’t have teased himself before with
kissing her so spitefully. This was a time for more important things and not
for feeding the flesh. And yet…

This
is temporary
,
he thought to himself.
Like everything else.

With
that thought in mind, it was only by keeping her at a distance that he could
allow her to stay close.

7

With
her head resting against Armand’s, Anne opened her eyes. She wasn’t surprised
to see that he was tolerating her closeness. In fact, she didn’t think of it at
all. She examined his face, so close to hers. His wooden skin was hard against
her forehead, but it wasn’t cold. It was warm with life just beneath.

She
glanced at his lips. So perfectly carved; so attractive. He’d kissed her
earlier, and those wooden lips were not unpleasant, but it had not been a real
kiss. She would correct that. Anne wanted to kiss him
for real
. Why?
Because in this world of illusion,
they
were the only ones who were
real.

Her
head tilted and she guided her lips toward his. He did not move away. She put
her hand to his chest, bracing herself to move closer…

But
then she felt something familiar there. Beneath her fingers, something within
the nutcracker’s wooden chest pumped steadily.

Th–thump.
Th–thump.

“You
have a heartbeat,” she blurted, stopping suddenly before their lips met. “Why?”

For
a moment, he didn’t speak, perhaps confused by her abrupt turn until his
realization made him turn to anger. He stood.

“The
soldier is coming back,” he said, luck coming with the sound of measured
footsteps within the house. “That means we have to go.”

“Why
do you have a heart and those other toys do not?” she demanded, standing after
him, unwilling to let him dodge this.

“Nein,”
he replied. Her protest didn’t stop him from walking away.

“Why
do you have a heartbeat, Armand?”

He
ignored her. He passed into the next room, escaping her like a coward. At that
doorway, he met with Brooke, and Anne lost her opportunity.

“Did
you find a way out?” the nutcracker asked without hesitation.

“I
think we may have to make one,” the soldier informed him.

He’d
hardly gotten the words out before sound broke through the silence. There was a
groaning noise, followed by cracking sounds. It only took them a moment to
realize that the racket was coming from the
walls
of the house.

But
by that time, it was much too late. There was no time to run.

Brooke
headed for Anne, but Armand had already gripped her. He pulled her to the floor,
shielding her with his body as the entirety of the three–story castle house
fell apart and crashed down on them.

1

The
weight of the destroyed castle house was great, but Armand managed to push up through
it, relieving his back of the fallen walls. He held them up, unable to push the
rubble away as it was. He might injure
her
.

Anne
was there beneath him, unconscious. Whether she had been hit by something or
she had simply fainted, he did not know. She was alive, and all else was quite
fine for now. Princess Pirlipat’s former soldier, Brooke, had survived the
crash easily, already having pulled himself from the debris. He headed toward
Armand’s position.

“They’ve
left,” Brooke said, referring to the puppets that had invaded the realm. There
were none in sight. “The large door is open.”

“Take
her,” Armand instructed, wincing against the weight of the broken house on his
shoulders.

Brooke
waded through the mess and pulled Anne up into his arms.

He
looked down at her while the nutcracker freed himself. Her hair was in long
tangles. There was a line of bruising across her throat. A small cut on her arm
seeped blood on an area of the dress.

“Dreadful
bad luck this one’s had today,” Brooke commented.

The
nutcracker said nothing. Brooke looked to him, seeing that he was peering
around at the flickering room that seemed so dark and empty; so quiet and vast.
Something wasn’t right about his stance. He wasn’t nearly as erect as he’d been
before, slumped just slightly. Brooke noticed a patched spot on the
nutcracker’s leg where it had been damaged recently, and he seemed to not be
putting much weight on it.

“Are
you alright?” he ventured, though his face did not show much concern.

Armand
ignored him. “So they left through the larger door, you assume?” His voice was
not as strong as before, seeming to lack breath.

“That
would be my guess,” Brooke said, leaving the other matter alone. If the
nutcracker was hurt and wanted to ignore it, he would also.

“To
the passages with us, then.”

Armand
riffled around a bit through the rubble until he saw the gleam of the cat’s
eye. He collected it and met with Brooke near the edge of the mess. The
dark–haired soldier was standing there, looking over the pile of rubble that
remained. He might have been reflecting on past days here, or possibly even
mourning the loss of the only life he’d ever known, but Armand didn’t see
either of those things there on his pale face of glass. There was a complete
absence of feeling, and the only dedication Brooke had left now belonged to the
woman he carried in his arms. Armand couldn’t have respect for that–since the
soldier was nothing but a toy–but he was pleased with it.

Wincing
for a sudden pain, Armand gripped his side lightly.

Not
too much further
,
he told himself.
Rest can be had after I get what I want from the Shaman.

He
happened to glance toward Brooke, who was staring at him resolutely.

“At
your word,” he said with a nod.

Armand
nodded in return and moved then toward the open grate that would lead them into
deeper darkness. In Anne’s unconsciousness, the cat’s eye would not work for
them. The nutcracker mused for a moment about how strange it was that the mice
had possessed this relic. Why would they want it? It reacted with the life–force
of a human. The toys could not use it because they had no flesh. The mice could
not even
touch
the eye with bare paws. So perhaps the
King
had
simply used it to inspire fear in his own?

Or
perhaps it still had some sentimental value to him?

But
this was nothing to be wondering about. Armand needed to keep his focus. He’d
already made too many mistakes with that so far.

The
shafts were quiet and warm, littered with pieces of toys, no doubt cut off by
the bladed puppets as they’d made their escape. It was unknown to any of them
what those demons had been doing in Pirlipat’s kingdom, for as soon as their
attack had begun, it was over. But this was another matter that wasn’t thought
on.

2

Brooke
moved on for a while in the silence, impassively trudging through the doll
scrap–yard that this end of the passage had become. He couldn’t see well, but
did decently to maneuver Anne and himself through the mess. She slept on in his
arms.

At
the first fork in the passage, he stopped.

“Perhaps
you should be leading,” Brooke said to Armand, glancing in both directions that
looked decently alike. “And I have a match for light if you need it.”

The
nutcracker didn’t reply, and upon listening, Brooke realized that there were no
footsteps sounding behind him. Carrying the woman, he turned, looking back in
the passage to see the white–haired prince bracing himself against the wall. He
appeared quite uneasy. There was certainly something wrong with him. It must have
happened when the house fell, or perhaps a blow to the head from that chain had
actually made the nutcracker bleed. Brooke did not understand what could be
wrong, but he knew by this that the nutcracker was not a toy at all. He was
real.

“Are
you sure you’re alright?”

As
if the words had triggered it, Armand opened his mouth and heaved, spilling
dark, bloody bile from within. It was completely liquid, without substance,
splattering the ground. Brooke could not smell it, but guessed it was decidedly
rancid.

Having
finished, Armand stood straighter, guarding his dripping mouth with his arm.

“I
need to rest,” he said.

Brooke
gave a nod of understanding, not managing to be disgusted by the sight. “I know
a place.”

3

The smell
in the rodents’ realm was far more stringent than ever before. It stunk of
death, seeping into the inner parts of the house, but not enough that it
reached the noses of the human inhabitants–yet. The stench of the cold dark was
not much of a problem for the pretty little poppet named Clara. Her tight curls
bounced as she trotted across the uneven ground, which was littered with mess.
She carried a scrap of paper in her hand.

Eventually,
she found the one she’d been looking for.

He
stood in the middle of everything, mice darting all around the area in an
attempt to finish their job. He supervised intently, glaring at them all. As
always, the large razorblade was on his back.

Clara
would have never thought that he would gain the favor of the Master so quickly.
If she’d been capable of much higher thought, she might have guessed that her
master needed a much stronger ally in his time of weakness, especially since
his scout had been destroyed. But Clara thought none of that. All she cared for
was that she’d not gotten into trouble for bringing him here.

“Edge!”

At
the sound of her voice, Edge turned his red eyes toward her. She moved straight
up to him, not noticing until she got there how incredibly dirty and smelly he
was. His lovely pale skin was smudged with blood. His clothes and hair were not
much cleaner.

“You
shouldn’t be running around out here,” he scolded lightly with a mockingly
self–righteous grin. “You might get a glob of something nasty in your pretty
hair.”

She
examined him confusedly, holding the paper behind her back.

“What
happened?” she asked him.

“Tying
up loose ends in preparation for the climax.” There was pride in his voice.
“Are you ready?”

The
child nodded eagerly, opening her mouth to tell him what she’d come all this
way for, but once again, her attention was diverted. Several puppets marched
into the torch–lit area from the side, and Edge gave them his attention as
well. They stepped to the place where Edge stood, one nearly slipping on the
floor’s fresh coat of human–fluid paint.

From
behind Edge, Clara looked at the marionettes, examining their twisted claws and
pike arms. These puppets were creepy to her. They always spoke in whispers.
Very sneaky.

One
puppet with the look of a circus clown leaned forward to Edge’s ear. Clara could
not hear the words, but she heard the hiss of the whisper. She saw the pleased
smile emerge on the face of the doll in the bloody, purple attire.

“Excellent,”
he said. The puppet whispered on, and after a short moment, Edge’s expression
faded from pleasure to apprehension.

“What
happened? Did you see where they went?”

At
these words, Clara’s eyes lit.

“Is
it Anne?” she asked. Edge ignored her.

“Is
it
Anne
!” she demanded once again, tugging at Edge’s skirt.

The male
doll gripped her wrist carefully as the puppet spoke on in his ear. Clara’s
bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

“Fine
enough,” Edge finally relented. “He’ll come to
me
. Just see that your
own duties are completed.”

The
puppet gave a nod and left the area with the others that had entered. Edge’s
smile renewed, but then he seemed to remember the child. He looked down to her
insistent, awaiting expression.

“You
have to learn to be patient, precious. Yes, they were sighted,” he told her
quietly, though he hadn’t wanted to talk about it openly. “But I told you how
it would happen, did I not?”

Clara’s
little shoulders slumped.

“Yes…”
she admitted. Honestly though, she didn’t want to wait.

“Good,”
the doll said, crossing his arms. “Now, you should…”

“I
made you something!” she said abruptly, cutting him off. From behind her back
she withdrew the folded scrap of paper.

The
look in her eyes was so full of innocent anticipation that he found he couldn’t
refuse her.

Oh,
what would it hurt?

Between
two slender fingers that were covered in dry blood, Edge took the paper from
her. A picture stared back at him, drawn with shards of crayon. It presented
the stick–figured likenesses of Clara and Anne together. The woman’s hands were
tied together, and Clara held her near with a string that had been tied around
the woman’s neck. Clara smiled in the picture. Anne smiled too. Edge thought it
was very interesting. Still, he wasn’t sure what it had to do with him. He had
work to do.

He
handed the drawing back down to her impassively.

“Yes,
yes, how nice. Now run along, dear, before you get dirty.”

Clara’s
face swelled with anger.

“Unfold
it!” she yelled, stomping her foot.

Edge
nearly cringed at the outburst. The girl was frightening by her own right. How
fun she would be to nurture! However, he had no time for that, but since she
was so delightfully bossy, he would humor her.

Edge
unfolded the paper fully, and another part of the picture was presented to him.
He saw a figure that might have only been a representation of himself. On the
ground lay his body in the purple dress, headless. Near that was the head of
the nutcracker. And in the middle of the page, was a picture of how Edge was
meant to be–the lovely head with long black hair, mounted perfectly atop the
tall, powerful body of the nutcracker. The razor was in his hand.

Edge
smiled a very maniacal smile.

“Do
you like it?” Clara asked hopefully, clasping her hands.

Edge
nodded, looking at her with a warm, paternal smile.

“It’s
perfect
.”

4

Sitting
in the warm glow of a lantern, Brooke rolled the cat’s eye marble in his hands,
trying to discover its secret. Across from him, the nutcracker sat quietly,
doing nothing but breathing. He’d cleaned himself off, and looked mostly
presentable–save for a few small splashes of blood.

Brooke
had led him into a corner in the passages that had been set up as a post for
the soldiers of Pirlipat’s kingdom. There was a large lantern with a glass globe
over it, glowing now from Brooke’s match. In front of that were two thread–less
spools that the renegade soldiers sat on now. There was a sock lining the wall
of the shaft, stuffed with cotton. That was where Brooke had placed Anne, who
was still unconscious.

The
soldier in the black coat with silver trim glanced toward the woman. She needed
this rest while it was content to come to her. Who knew when the opportunity
would arise again?

Her
body rose and fell with breath as she slept, and he watched her with interest.
Her body actually needed that air to survive. He could breathe himself; he
could breathe all he wanted but his body did not need it at all. It was just
one more lie added to the fable of his being.

How
disheartening.

“Tell
me something, nutcracker,” Brooke requested, refusing to let feelings of
self–pity overcome him. “Why is she here?”