AN: First of all, I will be referring to the characters in the following fashions: Ahiru, Fakir, Rue and Mytho. Nothing belongs to me. It will be primarily Fakir/Ahiru, because I love them. Thing will take little while to get into motion. Thanks for reading! Apologies about the delayed update (can I even call it a delay if it's been like three years?).


Once upon a time, there was a man who spun terrifying, and tragic tales. Fearing his power, the people severed his hands from his body, so he could no longer pen out those stories which interfered with reality. Unbeknownst to them, the man had created a machine, which would continue to write, using his own blood as ink. The story featured the man himself, pulling the strings of the characters, the plot, all from within the story itself. The man loved misfortune and concocted the perfect tragedy.

The tragic tale that was spun featured a prince, a monstrous raven, a useless knight and two princesses. The prince took out his own heart (that which the raven wished for most) to seal away the evil raven. The knight, was destined to die at the very claws of the monster. What of the princesses? One was the daughter of the very raven that the prince battled. The other, was a false princess, whose true form was that of a duck. The duck used a pendant to transform into Princess Tutu, to reunite the prince with his heart. Princess Kraehe, the princess of the ravens, dyed one of the shards of the prince's heart in raven's blood - which turned him into the prince of ravens. Even so, the princess loved him still. The knight, useless with a sword in his hand, took up a pen in its stead, and wrote out their story. Through both of the princesses' love, the prince became whole once again, and with the help of the pen of the knight, he vanquished the raven and saved his princess, who had been held captive by the horrible raven. Princess Tutu turned back into a duck, and she and the knight, and the prince and his princess, lived happily ever after...
Nonetheless, this was a work of fiction, written within the confines of a book, but when those pages ended... Who was there to close the cover?


Evening had fallen in Iwaku, the stars were dim and the moon hung low, barely a sliver of a crescent in the sky. Wind swept through the otherwise silent town, which disturbed dust that rose from the cobblestone streets in small twisters. The cobble lay in fractures, grasses and flowers grew from in between these fissures. The buildings that lined the streets were in disrepair, planks of wood nailed haphazardly across broken windows and doorways. From the alleyway that was formed by two rather large buildings, a figure emerged from the shadows. Clad in an overtly large gray cloak, with the hood pulled low to cover their face in shadow. The figure hastened down the street, each step made a muffled clack, followed by the tinkle of a song. It crossed the town, and approached a wide building, that spanned a block in either direction. It strode up the staircase with quick steps, and paused at the boarded off door. A large metal lock encircled the wooden doorhandles. An aging plaque was to the right of the door, it was covered in thick layers of rust, intercepting the words written there. All that could be seen was part of the last word, "rary." The figure lifted a hand from the confines of the cloak, nestled in its hand was a large silver key, which the figure promptly plunged into the lock and gave a sharp twist. The sounds of the lock's mechanism tumbling, resounded loud enough, that the figure twitched.

The door let a groan escape as it barely opened an inch. The figure placed their hands upon the wood and heaved, the door gave way, and it then slipped inside. Darkness pressed close with a tangible effect, the figure leaned back against the door and gave a shove, the door moaned itself shut. The figure straightened and strode to a table, it removed a box from inside of its cloak and snapped it open, it drew a match from its depths with quick efficiency. It struck the match against the box and a flame danced to life, keeping the darkness at bay. A broken lantern rested on the table, the figure moved the match over the wick and in a few short moments the wick caught. The figure straightened the lantern, and lifted it from its place, pieces of glasses fell as the figure proceeded through the book stacks. With nimble steps, it avoided the books that lay on the floor, and the holes that had formed in the wooden flooring. It moved to the back of the library, before long, it stood before yet another stack, however, this one, the figure took hold of and shoved aside. It screeched loudly as it fell to the ground, books tumbled from its shelves as it went. Behind the bookcase was a red velvet curtain, with a flourish, the figure swept the curtain aside, revealing a silver door. Upon the door, designs were etched into the surface. Twin swans entwining up from the floor, heads tilted around a crown and crow's feather. A sword entered the door's picture from the left, while a crow's wing entered from the right. The figure raised its hand once again, this time, in its palm rested a pendant. It swung slightly from the end of its chain, glinting red in the flame's glow. The pendant grew brighter, shining a steady red, the swans on the door began to shine with a golden light. They pealed away from the door flapping golden wings and tossing their heads. They encircled the figure before flying toward the window of the library, but before they could leave they disappeared. The figure ignored the swan's disappearance, its eyes glued to the door. The sword arced across the door, piercing the raven's wing on the right, they too, died away. The crown and feather grew in size, until the crown broke into two, and both consumed each other, until the door lay bare of any design.

A click sounded from on the inside of the door, and air flooded around the figure as the door began to open, and then disappeared completely, as if it had never been there. The figure raised its head and walked through the opening that the door had left unguarded. It descended the steps, as they spiraled down, seemingly forever. As the figure went, flames flickered to life in the walls. Yet further down the figure traveled, the air grew cold, its breath formed clouds of mist as it breathed. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, it stepped onto the level landing, and raced up to the small room set to the side. In the figure went. A small study was presented before it, a desk that stretched the length of one wall, a stool placed before it. Feathers black as pitch littered the room, as well as papers, inks and books, they all lay in disarray about the room. On the desk was a book, it was open, and it was on the last page. The back cover rested firmly against the desk. A single coal black feather rested against the bright white page. The figure went up to the book, and looked down upon the last page, brushing the feather away.

"...Once upon a time a man died. The last story that the man had spun should have ended in extraordinary tragedy. However, the story turned out to have a happy ending. The reason for that ending was one little duck the man himself called into the story. And so, a man started to write a story. That story, overflowing with hope had just begun..."

Where the feather had been, it left an inky mark. The figure touched the page, nothing was written after the sentence, it was merely blank. There were no words, such as "The End" or even, "They lived happily ever after." The figure pulled the pendant from its cloak once again and placed it against the page of the book, it flared brightly, before turning pitch black. It hesitated a step back, its arm trembling.

"It is hopeless... After all..." The mark on the page began to spread, and it swirled up and thinned, looping in and out and curving gracefully. The figure watched as the mark formed the words,

"Once upon a time..."