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Chapter Text

Eric never found joy in speaking with Masucher. He thought the man unpleasant, rude, and altogether a highly disagreeable person to be around. He was well aware that the feeling was a mutual one, as Maushcer had done little to conceal his own dislike of Eric. Though they had been polite enough in front of Eric’s father, they mostly avoided each other through the years of Mauscher’s service to King Nikolaus. Now, with the king dead, Mauscher no longer bothered with false pleasantries. His few words to Eric lacked any sense of empathy for the grieving prince, prompting Eric to go to further efforts to avoid the new viceroy.

When Mauscher had sent for Eric a month after the king’s death, Eric had been sorely tempted to have Elizabeth accompany him, regardless of Mauscher’s insistence for him to come alone. Partly because of a small (and slightly petty) desire to spite Mauscher. But also because he felt as though her being with him might ease the strange apprehension that had settled over him upon hearing of the viceroy’s desire to speak with him.

Rodolph accompanied Eric to the throne room. Upon entering the expansive hall, Rodolph stepped off to the side, leaving Eric to approach the dais the throne was on. Eric clenched his jaw at seeing Mauscher seated on his father’s throne, but he said nothing, allowing Mauscher to speak first.

Maushcer smiled. It was not a warm expression. There was a condensing cruelness to it, along with a strange eagerness. “How wonderful to see you out of your chambers, Your Highness,” said Mauscher, his deep voice vibrating with a mocking smugness. “I was beginning to worry that you had wasted away, as it’s been some time since you’ve bothered to grace the court with your presence.” He gestured to the court surrounding him and Eric.

Eric spared the surrounding courtiers an uninterested glance. Many of them, dressed in pompous and overly extravagant outfits, watched him with interest, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince who had hidden himself away for the past month. Others looked bored, and a few of the older ladies were eyeing Eric’s mourning clothes – which were rumpled and far too plain to wear at court – with vague disapproval.

Mauscher tapped the royal scepter against the palm of his hand, regaining Eric’s attention. Eric frowned, fury boiling with him at seeing his family’s heirloom in the hands of the man he so despised. Only adding to the insult was the infuriating manner in which Maushcer so openly used the magical object. Eric’s father had rarely brought the scepter out into the public eye; when he did, he had handled it with extreme respect.

“I’m assuming my father had explained to you of the importance of bringing the scepter out only when there is a true need for it,” said Eric coldly. “Is it forgetful stupidity that prompted you to ignore his wishes, or merely some revolting desire to disrespect his memory?”

Mauscher chuckled. “You always were such a rude little brat,” he snapped. He stood, his tall figure flooding the dais with his presence as he glared down at Eric. “Your father entrusted the throne to me before he had died. Do you know why?”

Eric did not respond.

“He did so because he knew that you were unworthy of such an honor. He knew what a useless, pathetic excuse for a prince you are, and realized that giving you the crown would bring disaster to Parthenia.”

The words stung, but Eric kept a stoic expression, not wanting to give Mauscher the satisfaction of knowing that such a taunt affected him.

A smirk lined Mauscher’s thin lips. “I was instructed to pass the throne to you once the council had deemed you worthy of its responsibilities.” He gestured to a row of men sitting off to the side of the dais.

Eric’s gaze drifted briefly to the council. Many of them had served beneath his father for years, and as such, were familiar faces to Eric. The councilman seated closest to Eric was one he had spoken with a bit more often than the others – Johan Vogt. For a brief moment, their gazes met, though there was no solace or friendly acknowledgment in Vogt’s eyes (not that Eric had expected any). A grim resolution encompassed Vogt’s expression, and he turned his attention back to Mauscher.

“The council and I have spent many hours debating what to do with you since your father’s passing,” continued Mauscher.

“Forgive me for being such a burden to all of you,” said Eric, a mixture of vexation and sarcasm mingling in his voice. “I did not mean to hinder the council with such frivolous worries.”

Some of the councilmen frowned at that, and a flicker of annoyance passed over Mauscher’s face. “You need not fret any longer, Your Highness,” said Mauscher coolly. “For I have, most fortunately, come to a solution that should satisfy the interests of all parties in this matter.” He lifted the scepter and pointed it at Eric.

Alarm shot through Eric, and he stumbled back a step. Around him, various courtiers gasped and murmured frantically to each other. Some looked frightened, though it seemed to be for their own safety, rather than Eric’s. Others seemed to be unabashedly excited at this sudden turn of events, as though they had been yearning for some entertainment to dilute their boredom.

Rodolph immediately started towards Eric, fear flickering through the fierce protectiveness on his face. But at that moment, soldiers wearing armor Eric did not recognize burst through the throne room’s entrance doors. Rodolph spun about, drawing his sword.

A few of the courtiers cried out, and the crowd became restless with anxiety as more of the soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms poured through the throne room’s side doors. Eric snapped his head towards the intruders, gritting his teeth as realization struck him. He looked back at Mauscher, fury in his eyes.

Mauscher smiled. “It is clear that you are not fit to rule Parthenia,” said he, his voice rising to thunder above the court. “For the good of this kingdom, I hereby declare your claim to the throne void. I shall rule in your father’s stead, and Pathenia will prosper as it was meant to.” He lifted the scepter higher, muttering an incantation that was drowned out by the noise of the courtiers and the soldiers’ rattling armor.

The scepter began to glow. Eric immediately threw himself out of its path, narrowly avoiding the shot of magic. Instead, it struck a duke sitting off to the side of the room.

The duke cried out, tumbling from his chair from the impact of the magic. He fell between the rows of seated courtiers, obscuring him from Eric’s view as he morphed beneath the magic of the enchantment meant for the prince. The courtiers who had been seated next to him screamed, jumping up and stumbling back as they stared down at whatever form the duke was in now.

Chaos quickly erupted. Courtiers crying out in terror scrambled frantically over each other in desperation to reach the throne room’s doors. Mauscher’s soldiers were immediately caught up in the bedlam, along with Rodolph, all of whom were trying to get to Eric.

Eric shoved his way through the courtiers, trying to advance towards the dais. In the distracting mayhem, he might just have a chance at catching Mauscher off guard and grabbing the scepter. Eric ducked around a duchess, careful to keep himself hidden as he weaved his way towards Mauscher.

“Bring him to me!” Mauscher roared, scanning the crowd for the prince. “Bring him!”

Having moved onto the dais, Vogt said something to Mauscher, drawing his attention. Vogt pointed at Eric, who had been winding his way around a nearby pillar. A hungry triumph lit in Mauscher’s eyes, and he arched the scepter in Eric’s direction. “There!”

Eric snapped his head up. He ground out a curse and tried to dive back behind the pillar, but a solider lunged forward, grabbing his arm. Eric yanked against the man’s grip, then swung his fist around. His punch would have landed squarely on the man’s jaw, but just before it could connect, his wrist was caught by another solider. The second soldier yanked Eric’s arm away from the first man, giving it a violent twist in warning. With both arms tightly secured, the prince was dragged towards the dais.

By now, most of the courtiers had escaped the throne room. The din died down, making the clinking armor of Mauscher’s men gratingly loud in the ensuing silence. Eric struggled fiercely against his captors, but all his efforts rewarded him was a blow to the back of his head from one of the soldiers. Momentarily dazed, Eric felt a third pair of hands on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees before the dais.

“You’ve always been so difficult,” commented Mauscher. His expression darkened into a sneer. “How glad I am to finally deal with you properly.”

“How long do you think you’ll be able to hold onto a throne seized through spilt blood?” snarled Eric. “How much loyalty does such a man truly gain?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Mauscher. “Though that is a tempting idea.” He shook his head. “I’m going to keep you right here, where I’ll be able to keep an eye on you. When I get bored of your humiliation and self-loathing, perhaps I’ll kill you then. But –” He raised the scepter, aiming it at Eric. “I’d rather experiment with you first.”

An undeniable spark of terror rose up within Eric. He gave his arms another futile wrench. “Do you honestly think that’s a wise idea?” he snapped. “Using the scepter on me? It belongs to my bloodline; do you not think there won’t be consequences?”

“That is an impressive amount of arrogance to come from someone in your current position,” said Mauscher. He adjusted the scepter, pointing it first at Eric’s head, then his chest, trying to decide where best to strike him. “For the power the scepter possesses?” He scoffed. “Any risk is worth it.” Mauscher finally settled for aiming the scepter at Eric’s chest. “You chose to waste your time as prince with childish antics and frivolous pleasures. Why don’t we give you a body to match such a puerile lifestyle?” The hatred in his voice was palpable, giving the incantation he spoke next a terrifying layer of finality.

“Seize his joints and hollow his bones,

Give him a prison of wood to be his throne;

Strip away all that had been,

Bestow upon him a fate worthy of his foolhardy sins.”

Reddish bronze magic burst from the scepter, slamming into Eric.

Then there was just blinding pain.

Chapter Text

The midnight battle was over.

Clara sighed in relief as the final mice disappeared into the mouse hole. For a moment, she was at a loss as what to do, six inches tall and helplessly dangling from her own fireplace mantle.

Then she felt the garland she was clinging to jolt downwards, having loosened beneath her weight. Panic shot through her. “Uh oh.”

The garland tore away from the mantle, swinging across the parlor in a sweeping arc.

“Look out!” The warning had barely left Clara’s lips before the garland she was clutching collided with the one that the Nutcracker was hanging from. Both her and the Nutcracker lost their grips upon the impact, and tumbled through the air to land on a discarded sofa cushion.

Stunned, all Clara could do was lie there, gasping for breath. The Nutcracker, having recovered much quicker, rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. He turned his attention to her. “Are you alright?” he asked in concern.

Clara nodded. “Yes,” she wheezed. She tried to sit up, but her body was still trembling from the shock of the fall.

The Nutcracker extended his hand to her. Clara hesitated, staring at the wooden appendage.

The Nutcracker looked down at his hand. As if realizing how strange the limb must look to her, he faltered, embarrassment flickering over his face. But before he could withdraw his hand, Clara reached out and took it.

He smiled and pulled her to her feet. “Thank you, for saving my life.” The Nutcracker shyly undid the makeshift bandage she had wrapped around his arm and held it out. “And for your superior nursing skills.”

Clara stared at him. Now, with the tension of the battle gone, the absurdity of talking to her aunt’s Christmas present finally settled into her brain. She blinked, hesitant as she took the ribbon bandage. “Uh...you’re welcome.” Her hands clenched over the fabric as she looked around them. Everything was so big. “This has to be a dream.” She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the Nutcracker or herself, but saying the words out loud steadied her somewhat. Dreams were something familiar. They could be reasoned with.

“I’m afraid it’s all too real,” replied the Nutcracker grimly. He walked over to the screen in front of the fireplace and yanked his sword free. “And I’ve got to return home to Parthenia while I have the chance.”

The sound of his sword being sheathed seemed oddly loud in the silence following. Clara fiddled with the ribbon in her hands, torn between stifling the panic at the Nutcracker’s insistence that this was all real, and trying to place the odd familiarity of the word ‘Parthenia.’

Where had she heard it before?

Clara glanced to where her slipper had fallen. She walked over to it, amazed that her kick had been strong enough to knock the Mouse King off of the firewood pile. Flipping the shoe over with her toe, she slid her foot into it.

Hesitantly, the Nutcracker made his way over to Clara. He looked as uncertain as she felt, as though he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, now that there was no battle to distract him from having to explain all of this.

Clara’s eye brightened in realization, and she swiftly turned to face the Nutcracker. “Parthenia?” Relief soared through her at finally placing the word, and she laughed triumphantly. “Of course.”

The Nutcracker gave her a confused look. “What?”

She waved her hand at their surroundings. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to have dreamt up something as odd as this. Grandfather has told me on multiple occasions that I have too ‘wild’ of an imagination.” Clara shook her head. “Parthenia is the name of a fictional world from a book my aunt had given me years ago,” she explained. “I’ve read it countless times. I’m surprised I haven’t dreamed of it before, honestly.” She gestured to the Nutcracker. “I’m not sure why my mind would think you would be from there, but,” she shrugged. “I suppose nonsensical things are meant to occur in dreams.”

The Nutcracker stared at her. “What is your name?” he finally asked.

Clara flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have introduced myself earlier; being in a dream in no excuse to forget one’s manners.” She dropped the ribbon onto the sofa cushion and held out her hand. “I’m Clara Drosselmeyer.”

Surprise flashed over the Nutcracker’s expression, along with something else Clara couldn’t quite read. But before she could question his strange reaction, he took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “I’m...” He paused. “Nutcracker.” The name was said weakly, dipped in a bleak layer of shame.

She tilted her head, studying him curiously. “You don’t have a name?”

“I just gave it to you.”

“Hm,” said Clara, unconvinced. She shrugged. “I suppose I can call you that for now. I’ll have to think of something better when I wake up.”

“Clara, this isn’t a dream.” The truth reverberated terrifyingly in his voice, blanketing Clara’s attempts at logic with an honesty she could not deny.

Horror crept up within Clara. “But...the book…”

“I promise you, is from a place as real as this parlor we’re standing in,” said the Nutcracker.

Clara waved her hand frantically, desperately searching for a reasonable explanation to latch onto. “But my aunt, surely she would have told me if it was real.”

The Nutcracker shrugged. “Perhaps she was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

He held her gaze, the earnestness in his deep blue eyes undeniable. Feeling rather overwhelmed, Clara glanced about them once more, taking in their enormous surroundings.

“Clara?” asked the Nutcracker. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” answered Clara, a little breathlessly. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She fell silent, staring up at the fireplace mantle above them. The Nutcracker opened his mouth, then reluctantly closed it, giving her the time she needed to process the information.

Clara inhaled slowly, deeply, and a calm acceptance overcame her expression. “Alright then,” she said, in a rather matter-of-fact tone. She looked expectantly at the Nutcracker. “Well, before you go, would you mind changing me back? Remember, I used to be –” She raised herself on her toes and lifted her hand above her head. “Taller?”

The Nutcracker grimaced. “I’m afraid only the Sugar Plum Princess can reverse the Mouse King’s spell.”

“The...Sugar Plum Princess?” Clara repeated, the name awkward on her tongue.

“Yes,” said the Nutcracker. “I’ve been hoping to find her ever since the Mouse King turned me into a nutcracker.”

Clara raised her eyebrows. “You mean you used to be…”

“Not a nutcracker,” he finished bitterly.

Curiosity piqued within Clara. Before she could prompt him to further explain, the hoot of an owl echoed throughout the parlor. Startled, Clara and the Nutcracker jerked their heads up to watch a large brown owl swoop towards them.

Clara let out an alarmed cry, and she stumbled towards the Nutcracker. He threw out his arm in front of her protectively, and she grabbed onto it. With his other hand, the Nutcracker seized his sword’s handle, partially drawing it.

The owl flew over them harmlessly, then arched around to land on the armrest of the sofa. “Perhaps I can help,” suggested the owl.

Clara and the Nutcracker froze, staring at the bird.

“You will find the Sugar Plum Princess on an island across the Sea of Storms,” the owl continued. She had a smooth voice, reflective of the calmness in which she watched them.

“But it’s impossible to cross the Sea of Storms,” the Nutcracker said. Unlike Clara, the Nutcracker showed little surprise at a bird’s ability to talk. However, there was a distinct trace of distrust in his expression as he eyed the owl.

“It’s dangerous, yes,” concurred the owl. “But not impossible.” A subtle humor filtered into her tone, as though amused by the Nutcracker’s doubt.

Slowly, the Nutcracker re-sheathed his sword. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” he asked.

The owl chuckled. “What other choice do you have?” She gave the Nutcracker a strangely knowing look. “Where else do you plan to search, ‘Nutcracker’?”

Clara frowned at the odd way the owl spoke the Nutcracker’s name. It was as though some great secret had just passed between the two of them, and Clara found herself rather eager to know what it was. She glanced at the Nutcracker, who was silently contemplating the owl. Then he turned and began walking towards the mouse hole.

Clara lifted her gaze to the owl questioningly, but the bird merely waved her wing in the Nutcracker’s direction.

The Nutcracker paused and twisted back around. “Well,” he asked Clara. “Are you coming?” He gestured to the mouse hole a few paces in front of him.

Clara’s eyes widened as she realized his intention. “Me? With you? In there?” She sputtered out an uneasy laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Surely you don’t want to spend the rest of your life the size of a mouse,” interjected the owl facetiously.

Clara pursed her lips, finding the owl’s lack of concern for this entire situation rather annoying. Then again, she supposed she shouldn’t expect much sympathy from a bird, of all things. She heaved a defeated sigh. “But how will I get back?”

The owl launched into the air once again. It flew over to the Christmas tree, where Clara’s ballerina ornament hung. With delicate precision, the owl snatched a golden locket from the figurine’s porcelain neck. It swooped back around and opened its talons, letting the locket drop.

Clara lunged forward, catching the locket before it hit the floor.

“Once you have found the Sugar Plum Princess,” explained the owl. “Open the locket and you will return home your normal size.”

Clara snapped her head up to watch the owl perch itself on top of the parlor’s grandfather clock. “But –”

The owl stilled, solidifying into an elegant wood carving.

Clara released a frustrated sigh, then looked down at the locket in her hand. It felt strangely warm, as though pulsating with some kind of energy.

Or magic.

Clara shook her head and secured the locket about her neck. She turned to face the Nutcracker, who was waiting for her by the mouse hole.

Courage, Clara. The words echoed in her head, the voice uttering them sounding remarkably similar to her aunt’s. Clara let out a shaky breath. She gave a firm nod, as though in response to the voice, and walked over to the Nutcracker.

Courage.

“Ready?” asked the Nutcracker.

“This is crazy,” she replied. “But…yes.”

The Nutcracker took a step towards her. “Don’t worry, Clara,” he said softly. “I won’t let any harm come to you. I promise, I’ll protect you.”

Perhaps it was the warm sincerity of his voice. Or the so very human look in his eyes. But somehow, she believed him. Giving him a small smile, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm.

He seemed surprised by the gesture. Then his wooden features tilted upwards in a smile of their own. He dipped his head in a reassuring nod, and led her through the mouse hole.