.: Doubt Dream Defy :.
.: Prologue :.
An ivory glow irradiated from the skies fusing heaven with vale; the moon was full. Its unmatched beauty, although adept in executing a stir of veneration deep within the soul, failed to astonish the little duck wading in the shallows of the lake. She was unperturbed by the sight. Her golden feathers had been slightly ruffled with a passing breeze. Her thoughts, though vague and unclear, were mirrored by a pair of cerulean eyes - delicately framed with welling tears that refused to fall. Her heart cherished a love, unprofessed and unrequited, bound by silence.
As time elapsed slowly, ominous clouds danced precariously close to devouring the constellations. A flash of lightning and roar of thunder shattered the lengthy stillness.
Rousing from her inner thoughts, the little duck turned her head to the direction of which she'd heard the noise. The heavens were black; rain started to pour.
A silhouette appeared; a young man running from behind the trees closed the distance between the water's edge and himself. Recognition flickered in the cerulean eyes.
Minutes merely elapsed as the rain continued to fall; both duck and boy sodden.
Eventually realising the creature did not have any intention of returning to the banks, the young man walked into the water. Wading to almost waist-high, he reached her. The colour of emerald locked with that of cerulean. No words exchanged; he picked up the petite creature and withdrew from the bleak waters.
He half-walked, half-ran through the woods; arms drawing the duck closer to his chest, in a helpless attempt to shield her from the rain. Warmth radiated from his sodden body; instinctively she huddled closer.
Swift strides were brought to a halt. They had reached their destination; their Home.
The young man headed to his room in search for a towel. Fishing one out of the wardrobe, he wrapped it around the creature he'd been holding all along; her frame quivered beneath his touch. When she was dry, he placed her in a basket beside his bed and proceeded to the bathroom to dry himself off.
Neither had said a word nor made a sound… yet
The young man returned with his dark hair tied back and clothes dry; a look of utter irritation plastered his face.
"Ahiru, why on earth did you…" he stopped mid-sentence; the basket was empty… again.
Sheer dread replaced irritation. Eyes darting; dread soon subsided to relief.
On his bed, beside his pillow laid Ahiru, curled up in a ball. Her head was tucked under her wing; an even rise and fall of form suggested that she was fast asleep.
Sighing, Fakir sat at his desk. A lamp dimly lit his working space occupied by inkwell, quill and paper. He reached for his favourite quill, dipped it in ink and rested it on a sheet of white. But struggling to yield a string of words, the momentary pause caused black to bleed onto the page. Frustrated at the lack of words, Fakir finally surrendered his resolve to write and moved to the window.
Although lightning and thunder had stopped, rain continued to pound maliciously on the glass; the calm of water streaming with ease in the might of a storm. But, like the duck, it did not seem to move him; his gaze was not fixed on rooftops or horizon; he was pondering through thoughts that soared aimlessly in his mind.
It had been almost a year since the end of the tale that was expected to conclude tragically but did not. The treacherous Raven was defeated and the order of Kinkan-Chou, restored; the Prince chose his princess, subsequent to the retrieval of all the lost pieces of his heart; the knight defying fate, survived and finally the disappearance of a jovial girl lacking the skills but not heart of a ballerina was replaced with the appearance of a little duck.
'She should learn to let go…' Fakir began to think silently to himself.
Ever since Ahiru revealed to him, her secret identity as Princess Tutu and later, her true form as a duck, Fakir knew the risks involved if she persisted to save Mytho and challenge destiny. He knew that Ahiru loved Mytho but could never tell him; for fear that she would vanish in a burst of light. However, she sacrificed her capacity to transform from duck to girl for him, so that he could slay the Raven. With the Raven slain, he recognised his Princess, his love, as Rue and not her. Although the couple were grateful, they soon departed leaving Fakir to care for the little duck.
Ahiru, so as to pass time, spent her days on the lake. Fakir would accompany her, writing as she swam alone. He wrote stories in the hope of bringing joy to many people. None were tragedies, most were comical, adventurous and occasionally romantic; all beginning with 'Once upon a time…' and ending with '…happily ever after.'
The two rarely conversed. Fakir, who was normally absorbed in his writing, was never quite good with idle chatter and now that Ahiru was a duck, a simple conversation proved brutally difficult. So the days were long and lacked entertainment. But, occasionally, the writer would read his completed works to the duck who sat listening intently, hanging onto his every word.
Several times, Fakir found himself longing to write a story about Ahiru but was unsure as to why his desire was particularly strong. Perhaps, as he assumed, he believed Ahiru deserved a better ending - she deserved to be a girl, to be happy and to be loved - or because he believed it to be his job, to write stories; but never did he allow himself to indulge in the thought that maybe, possibly, in spite of all rationality, that he had begun to develop feelings for her.
Again there was a repetition of the words he didn't want to hear, 'She should learn to let go…' before a faint echo of '…or perhaps I should,' intruded his thoughts.
He knew from Ahiru's behaviour that, although she was genuinely happy for the Prince and Princess's union, including everyone else's happy ending, she still loved Mytho deeply and could not help but recall memories of when she was still a girl at Kinkan Academy. This constant struggle often isolated her and left her dwelling in loneliness. Fakir wished that she would let go of the past, and so, finally bringing an end to his procrastination, he tried to write a story for her.
The story was never begun. He could never find the correct beginning; without a beginning, there could never be an end.
He never consoled her regarding the issue of forgetting the past and looking forward to the future because he understood that she found refuge in recollecting and reliving happy memories; but moreover, that it was difficult to stop loving someone has deeply as she did. He would overlook the situation altogether, in vain.
He knew his place to help her and he had failed.
Turning to see her still sleeping form relieved him. She had run away this night; he had noticed after waking from a disturbing dream and not finding her there - in her basket. He thought he had lost her; panic had settled in the pit of his stomach. He went searching - everywhere. When, at long last, he reached the lake to find her there, he wanted to yell at her and yet he refrained; simply picked her up and brought her home.
He never questioned her; it was unnecessary. He could read her like an open book.
Diverting his attention away from inner reflections of failing Ahiru, Fakir could feel the dreaded weariness that accompanied lack of sleep. Not wanting to disturb the little duck, he returned to his seat, cleared up the mess at his table and switched off the lamp.
The nature of sleep soon seized the young man as an eerie presence engulfed the remaining corners of darkness.
.: An assembly of hooded figures scurried over the fields in gloom. They had come for the one man they feared. Not a King nor the Devil, simply a writer who possessed the unimaginable power of a God - to write stories that could bend reality to will.
This man had altered many people's destiny. Although he had used his ability to give people what they desired, it was not enough to save him from the chastisement of the townspeople.
Noblemen tried to bestow him with riches and property, promising their daughter's hand in marriage to him, in the hope that it may compensate for the deeds he had done for them. But more so, in the hope that he would not be angered and eradicate their fortunes and desires.
He was not moved by these gifts. Thus, he was a dangerous man to control.
The townspeople agreed that tonight would be the end of the writer's reign. They raided his home and found no one there. He had escaped with his only son. They separated in search for him. Ironically, it was the group of noblemen that found him - the ones whom he had brought from peasants to nobility.
His hands were severed. They left him dying.
In the last moments of his life he turned to the clock-tower. He dragged himself up the stairs and wrote on every wall with his blood. It was to be another story; to save him from the vulgar clutches of death.
When he finished, he managed to pull out a piece of parchment with his blood stained stumps. He chose a vacant section at the bottom of the West wall and sealed the parchment with wax, in the hope that it would not be tampered with.
Cackling, he left the town and died. His corpse, never found.
Soon, the townspeople forgot his name, forgot his stories, and forgot that he still had a living son.
His bloodline didn't run strong. He had but one descendant left; one who denied his ancestor's requests and endeavoured to make an ending of his own to the last known story the old man had begun and failed to conclude.
However, like all stories, there lies a twist. Devious and cunning, no one could tell what really went on in the mind of the dead author. He had unfulfilled plans…
Besides, His name was Drosselmeyer and should never be underestimated. :.
Fakir woke, sweating; it was still dark. He couldn't remember his dream; only blood, anomalous laughter and the remnants of seeing a piece of parchment sealed with wax.
Terror lingered in his shaking frame. 'It's just a nightmare… just a nightmare,' he repeated to himself.
A screech echoed in the room, startling the young man. He turned to see two red eyes staring back at him. A raven stood only meters away from Ahiru, its beak gnashing threateningly. Fakir lunged at the bird, which eluded his grasp and flew out of the open window from which it had come. He locked the windows, suspicious that it'd been unbolted, and approached the still sleeping Ahiru.
His emerald eyes scanned her form attentively; she wasn't hurt. Relieved, he picked her up and laid her on his lap as he sat on the bed. He wouldn't be able to sleep now. Recurring nightmares and unexpected visits from red-eyed ravens were unpleasant and troublesome. Though he knew there were hidden meanings; he was unsuccessful when it came to deciphering them which disturbed him greatly. Nevertheless, having her in his arms provided him with comfort.
Outside, a pair of eyes surveyed the duo. They narrowed slightly.
Sensing a feeling of being watched, Fakir searched the window; he saw nothing. An uncanny voice echoed in the back of his mind: 'This is just the beginning…'
Disclaimer: I've never had the honour of calling Princess Tutu, "Mine!" On the contrary, my younger sister prefers to believe it's hers… even when it's not!