One, two, three
With an exasperated huff, Alex sat up and rubbed his tired eyes. He reached over to his bedside table for the glass of water that he had placed there before bed but paused when he was struck with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something.
Four, five, six
It was the ballerina. He distinctly remembered placing her on the table before preparing himself for bed, but now she was gone. He pushed aside his sheets and stood, pulling on his boots out of habit.
Seven, eight, nine
Alex clumsily ran a hand over the contents of the table, squinting to see in the dim light from the flickering fire in the stove in the corner. She wasn’t there. He leaned down and cast his hand about in the space underneath his bed.
Ten, eleven, twelve
His mobility was not what it once was, and in his distress, he stretched his arm out too far. His knee smarted with pain as he lost his balance and fell to the floor. He landed heavily, nearly knocking the wind out of him as he turned at the last second to protect his injured arm and took the full brunt of the fall on the back of his shoulder.
Alex hissed in pain and swore softly under his breath. He felt suddenly dizzy, as if the world were rushing away above him. Or perhaps he was the one falling backwards. He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. A sound caught his attention. It was the steady tramping of feet over hard terrain. The rhythm of the steps was unmistakable, as ingrained into his brain as it had been over the last three years.
It was the sound of soldiers marching.
His eyes flew open as he sat up, searching wildly for the sound. But the soldiers were forgotten almost immediately at the disorienting sight before him. The room seemed to have grown to about seven times its previous size, along with all the furniture in it. The bottom of Alex’s cot now towered above him at nearly twice his height. The slippers on the floor underneath his bed were large enough for him to sleep in.
Alex quickly clambered to his feet and did a quick survey of the room. The rest of the other patients slept soundly in their beds, oblivious to the strange happenings going on around them.
“This is a dream,” Alex muttered to himself. “It has to be a dream.”
The marching feet drew closer, and, satisfied now that everything before him was only in his own head, Alex watched as a troop of soldiers marched in straight, even rows towards the center of the room. The shaving mirror had been propped against the base of the curtain rod used to separate his cot from the one next door, and it was through this that the soldiers were marching, stepping through the rippling surface, invisible one moment and then there the next.
They were dressed in smart red uniforms with black piping around the edges, black straight-legged pants, and boots that polished until they glistened in the firelight. A silver maple tree was emblazoned on their left shoulders. Some carried thin rapiers at the waists, but the soldiers in the rear all carried some type of musical instrument, slung over their backs or held in their arms at attention the way he had been taught to carry a rifle.
It was only after he noticed the strangeness of the instruments that Alex’s attention was also drawn to the wide disparity of features. Some of the soldiers appeared as normal men, albeit with striking, beautiful faces and pointed ears. They moved with a feline grace, reminding him of the mountain lions he had seen on the prowl while camping near the northern border. There were others with dark skin and curly hair, tall and willowy with long limbs and deep green eyes with flecks of gold like the leaves of trees in summer. Some of the soldiers were short and stocky, with broad shoulders and wide features. Dark, heavy brows and full beards that hid their mouths gave their faces a serious, almost angry expression. There were soldiers with bright, golden hair and merry young faces, looking ahead with eyes as blue and twinkling as pools of water.
And in their midst, graceful and delicate as a flower in spring, his ballerina moved forward with steps so light and quick that she almost seemed to be floating. Alex's eyes widened and his jaw dropped when she turned slightly, giving him a fuller view of her face.
It washisballerina.
Her wooden hair had been replaced by soft brown locks, pulled high on her head into a bun, and her white skirt sparkled as she moved. But most noticeable of all was the pair of iridescent wings that sprouted from between her shoulder blades. They were small, no taller than perhaps the distance from her fingertips to elbow, and they shimmered with a faint glow.
They moved together as one, their steps purposeful and sure, and Alex finally tore his gaze away from the wonder of their company to see what it was they were marching towards. In the center of the room stood another army, just as varied and strange and beautiful as the soldiers in red, but with malice in their eyes and sneers on their lips. They wore coats of black, with a red mouse instead of a silver tree. At their helm stood a man who rose a full head taller than the rest. His mousy hair hung long and straight, parting around his pointed ears and falling to his shoulders. He had a proud, strong jaw, a straight nose, and dark eyes that looked on the red soldiers with contempt. A golden crown sat atop his head, smooth and shiny and inlaid with glittering jewels. The shield he carried was obsidian black and bore the same red mouse as the jackets of the army behind him.
The red company drew up in formation before them about twenty paces away, and the ballerina stepped forward. Her small, slight figure stood in stark contrast to the soldiers behind her, but she held her chin high and her shoulders back with confidence as she spoke.
“What are you doing here, uncle? This realm is not under your jurisdiction.” Her voice was light and melodious, just as Alex had imagined it would be. Even the sternness of her tone did not detract from its pleasantness, but rather added a layer of interest.
“I could ask the same of you,” the mouse king replied haughtily. He looked down at the ballerina in reproach. “Imagine my surprise when I heard that my lovely niece had given her caretaker the slip and was left alone in the mortal realm.”
“I’m hardly alone.” She gestured with one arm to the rows of soldiers at her back.
The mouse king scoffed. “Yes, I can see the kind of company that you are keeping–rebels and traitors, the whole lot of them. While this realm may not be under my authority, Celesta,youare. And as your king, I command you to return home at once.”
Celesta tilted her head at him innocently. “I can’t do that, yet.”
“And why not?” His voice was low and dangerous.
“Because right now I’m the only thing standing in the way of you andhim.”
The king’s face reddened until it was almost the same shade as the mouse on his shield. His eyes flashed. “You dare to defy me? You’re nothing more than a half-breed, a disgrace to our family line born out of my brother’s weakness and inability to do the right thing for his Court, and a drain on my resources. Even so, have I not always ensured that you had food to eat and a roof over your head? And this is how you repay me? By open defiance and aligning yourself with treasonous rebels?” He spat on the floor. “I suppose I should have expected nothing less, considering your parentage.”
The ballerina stood, her face the picture of serenity, during this tirade. A slight twitching of her fingers was the only sign that the king’s words affected her in any way. Alex’s protective instincts flared to life at the sight of someone seemingly so small and defenseless in the face of such hateful ire. He reached a hand to his hip for his gun, only to be met with empty space. As he had not intended to leave the building when he woke, it was still tucked safely under his pillow.
