This is for Laurie, the Fullmetal Analyst, and also for das Milochen, who dances still.
On the first night, she dances ...
... dances with the prince for Edel while Fakir watches, the same pas de deux she attempted alone on the lake to music the steps themselves called from the air. Now she and her partner take their tempo from her pulse, humming a waltz together as he turns her through a tour de promenade. Between the fire and the fountain, where the light is strongest, she glides and leaps and pirouettes, needing no mime to tell of her love ... or her grief-shot joy.
Dawn sees their reluctant coda: the morning mist their scrim, the snap of the embers their applause.
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On the second night, she sleeps ...
... sleeps soundly, snoring the while (her sniffles courtesy of that damp chase underground). She had no time to nap after helping Fakir limp home and seeing Mytho back safe to his dormitory -- she barely made it to breakfast, where Piqué plied her with tea and Lilié measured her yawns. Nodding off in class got her a detention, and nodding off in detention got her another detention, and when she finally crawled home she forgot to kick off her shoes until she'd mounted the ladder into the loft.
"But Mytho didn't look tired at all," she mumbled, pleased, into her pillow.
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On the third night, she wakes ...
... wakes to hear the swallows nesting in the eaves twittering their daylight song, which explains why she dreamed of a spinning wheel turning endless creaking circles. The lamp still burns on her windowsill, forgotten in her rush to undress and retire; she shins down to snuff the wick, tossing a "Sorry!" to her confused friends through the glass.
After a few moments they quiet and she climbs back into bed. Bright afterimages trace an adagio of fire in front of her nose, spindling and twining. She marvels that light can be as bewildering as darkness, darkness as dazzling as light.
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On the fourth night, she falls ...
... falls right out of bed, without even the excuse of a nightmare, waking in a jumble of pain, embarrassment and trailing sheets. Why? Ducks nest on the ground, true, but her human body, built for climbing, should know how to deal with heights. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Once untangled, she hobbles in a circle until her bruised hip and shoulder stop stinging. If only some of Princess Tutu's power spilled into her everyday life -- just enough that she could catch herself before she falls instead of relying on others (she tugs her braid idly) to yank her back from the brink.
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On the fifth night, she studies ...
... studies for a history test, names and dates slipping from her memory as fast as she crams them in. She sinks forward in her chair until her chin hits the desk and wonders if the facts really will seep into her brain if she sleeps with her notes beneath her pillow. Staring cross-eyed at the page before her, she tries to convince herself that these things matter -- the way Mytho's heart or Fakir's wounds or Rue's transformation matters ...
She pushes her textbooks aside to ponder Herr Drosselmeyer's story, for he has set her a test she must not fail.
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On the sixth night, she eats ...
... eats a midnight snack with Piqué and Lilié, shared secretly after lights-out. Piqué's mother sends a package of sweets every month; this time it's macaroons: almond, pecan and hazelnut. "Like eating clouds!" enthuses Lilié, hands full. Piqué distracts her with lemonade so Duck can have the last cookie.
"Oh, you poor thing!" Lilié exclaims then, wiping her mouth. "Now you'll die an old maid." She grinds crumbs sympathetically into Duck's scalp. "But don't worry! I'll love you even when nobody else does."
Duck shakes her head, shedding macaroon dandruff. Princess Tutu, she thinks, will never be an old maid.
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On the seventh night, she dreams ...
... dreams of dancing and of death, the two crossing like the arms of the cavalier who mimes mortality -- who is her prince and also Fakir. Don't die! His skin is waxen-white, as if the fog that curls around his body has stolen its warmth; his face drawn, as if death offers no release from pain.
She wants to spread her arms wide, palms out in denial, but he is falling and she cannot save him -- not with flowers, not with tears, not with love. His suffering pierces her heart: was this what Mytho felt, when he shattered his own?