The flames in the furnace suddenly dimmed, as if they too were listening. Blue Fairy remained kneeling, the light around her no longer brilliant but deep, ancient—like the light reflected from caves never before seen by the sun.
Gepetto shook his head, stepping back.
"No…" he whispered. "No… it's not like that…"
Blue Fairy didn't rise, she spoke, each word falling into the room like ancient stones put back in place after thousands of years of being lost.
"You didn't create that boy out of loneliness, Geppetto."
He stiffened.
"You didn't create that boy because you wanted a child."
Her voice wasn't cruel, but it brooked no evasion.
"Fate… ordained that you create him."
Gepetto trembled.
"No… I remember… I remember carving each piece of wood… talking to it… begging it to live…"
Blue Fairy closed her eyes for a moment—as if bearing the weight of ages.
"When an ancient soul must return to the world," she said slowly,
"it cannot simply… emerge from nothingness."
"it needs… a shell."
She looked at Pinocchio.
"You created that shell."
Gepetto shook his head vehemently in protest.
"He is my son!"
Blue Fairy continued, her voice now carrying the weight of the age, as if speaking for the entire history of the world.
"You created… an egg."
"Not by magic."
"Not by power."
"By love.
By patience.
By the hands of a father."
Tears streamed down Geppetto's cheeks.
"And I…" Blue Fairy said, her voice softer, almost weary.
"I am the one who must place my soul inside.
To nurture it.
To wait… until the world needs the king under the mountain to return."
The room fell into absolute silence; Pinocchio did not move.
But his eyes—darkened, deepened, grew heavier.
Gepetto took a step forward, then another.
"No," he said, his voice breaking. "No. No. NO!"
He pointed at Pinocchio.
"That is my son!"
"I held him!"
"I taught him to walk!"
"I taught him to speak!"
"I taught him… to become human!"
Blue Fairy did not object, which hurt Geppetto even more.
"I don't care who he was before!" he roared.
"I don't care what the world needs!"
He knelt before Pinocchio.
"I only need him… my son…"
Pinocchio bowed his head, his wooden hands clenched, not cracking, but trembling slightly.
In his eyes—
Two worlds were pulling him in two directions.
The memories of the stone hall.
The sound of his ancestors' hammers.
A crown as heavy as a mountain.
And—
An old carpenter…
One who had held him when he didn't even know what the world was.
Blue Fairy whispered:
"None of that is a lie, Geppetto."
He shook his head, despairing.
"You were not deceived.
You were chosen."
Gepetto laughed—a broken laugh.
"I didn't want to be chosen!"
"I only wanted to be a father!"
Silence.
Pinocchio stepped down from the bed, slowly and heavily, as if each step carried the memory of a lost race.
He knelt before Geppetto, not as a king, but as a son.
"Father," he said, just one word, but his voice trembled.
Geppetto immediately embraced him.
Tightly.
As if afraid that if he let go—he would become something too big to hold.
Pinocchio closed his eyes. And in that moment—
There was no Durin. No kingdom. No destiny.
Only—
A son…being embraced.
The Blue Fairy watched them.
And for the first time—
She bowed her head even lower.
Not before Durin.
But before—
The love that had created a shell… strong enough to contain a king.
Blue Fairy stood silently in the dim yellow light of the small wooden room. The space seemed compressed, even the dust particles in the air felt heavy with the words about to be spoken. The night wind seeped through the window cracks, causing the candle to flicker, the shadows of the three figures stretched and distorted on the wall like silent witnesses of the age.
She spoke—not loudly, but carrying an echo as if from ancient caves deep within the mountains.
"The world… needs Durin back."
The air froze. Geppetto clenched his fists. Pinocchio stood motionless, his wooden eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.
Blue Fairy slowly stepped forward, each step a step on the memories of thousands of years of history.
"Ancient evils are awakening. Things once buried beneath the ashes of the old era… are finding their way back."
She looked up at Pinocchio.
"And now…the Dark Lord is no longer alone. He has an equal. A dark queen is rising beside him. The balance of power in the world is crumbling."
Her voice lowered, heavy as a boulder.
"The world needs a king from the heart of the mountains. A king born from stone, from memory, from an ancient oath. A king not tempted by glory…but bound by responsibility."
Her gaze softened as she looked at Pinocchio.
"Durin…must return."
"No."
Geppetto blurted out, his voice hoarse.
"I did not create him for war. I did not create him for a crown or some ancient destiny!"
He turned to Pinocchio, his eyes trembling.
"I created you…because I wanted a son."
The room fell silent.
Pinocchio bowed his head.
No one could see his eyes, only his slightly trembling wooden hands.
"Father…"
Pinocchio's voice was small, but no longer childish. He stepped forward.
"Father, do you remember… the first day I moved?"
Gepetto didn't answer.
"You were so scared you dropped your hammer."
A very soft laugh escaped Pinocchio—fragile as memory.
"You held me… very tightly. You said I didn't need to be perfect. I just needed to… be myself."
Gepetto closed his eyes. Pinocchio continued, his voice breaking.
"You taught me how to chisel wood. You taught me how to listen to the wind. You told me about Mother… every night."
He lifted his head, his eyes no longer just wood, but something deeper—something ancient, yet still warm.
"Father… I don't want to leave you."
The room trembled at that simple truth.
"But if the world truly needs Durin… if I was born to protect what is good… what you taught me to love…"
Pinocchio took another step.
"Then I will."
Gepetto trembled.
"But listen to me, Father."
Pinocchio's voice was firm.
"Even if I become king… even if I sit on a throne beneath a mountain… even if the whole world kneels before me…"
He placed his hand on his chest.
"I will still be your son."
Gepetto's tears fell onto the wooden floor.
"I will proudly say that. Before the gods. Before kings. Before history."
His voice broke.
"You did not create a king."
He stepped forward and knelt before Geppetto.
"You created me."
Blue Fairy bowed her head again.
Not before Durin.
But before the moment of making a king.
Outside, the night wind blew across the roof.
Far, far away, underground, something seemed to be awakening.
Not darkness.
But the memory of stone.
The memory of kingship.
The memory of Durin.