Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Kapitel des Erzählers ~ Prelude
(Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Chapters of a Storyteller ~ Prelude)
(THE DRILL: I hereby pronounce having no claim to Princess Tutu, or any of its characters.
That honor solely belongs to the creator, who I am ever-so-jealous of: Ikuko Itoh.
His series' affiliations include the animation studio Hal Film Maker, ADV Films, Kaoru Wada, Ritsuko Okazaki, and all other advocates to the production.
'Til death do myself and this loveable series part.)
Darkness closes in on Gold Crown Town once again. Thankfully, the night that comes doesn't last forever, like that tremulous day five months ago.
That day, a villainous ghost of a man summoned a terrible monstrous crow, so vast he cast a shadow on the entire town. The villagers all turned into crows, with the exception of a few: a knight, a haughty, knowledgeable (amateur) writer, a prince, the crow's captive fledgling (a beautiful girl), and a duck.
That duck, now speckled with a few white feathers, stares at the half-moon on this cloudless spring night, reminiscing the battle. Suddenly she shakes her yellow head furiously.
No, no! This won't do! I'm breaking my promise..
It was soon after that day, when she, with the help of her knight and friends, defeated the evil crow, the Raven, with a power they unleashed together called "hope". This banished the Raven and his creator, the evil ghost of a man. The knight left his sword and used the power he inherited from the villainous man for the purpose of good. With the power to turn stories into reality, he held the injured duck in his arms. He rewrote the five gates of Gold Crown that were destroyed in the battle back to normal. Slowly, the fairytale creatures written by the villain turned into normal animals and humans, and the knight who dropped his sword for the pen became the closest companion to the duck, named Duck.
But it was after those five gates were restored that the former knight Fakir thoughtfully stared at the stone walls and spoke. He asked Duck to make a promise: neither of them could ever think of the past again. Their pasts were conducted by an evil man's writing beyond the grave. From then on, their past lives were no longer relevant. They agreed to start anew, and to forget.
However recently, nights like these bring those memories back to her. A pang of guilt from the broken promise chills her feathers.
She heads to the bed as Fakir leaves the bathroom, draped in a towel and long trousers. His emerald olive hair still drips from the shower, but his eyes, just a slighter shade of green, are like the glassy lake outside of their comfortable cottage. They do not tremble like the knight's. They are confident, and they are peaceful, and they brim with love as Fakir turns his attention to his feathered companion.
"You've grown pretty used to the bed, I see."
She tumbles in the sheets to express her comfort, and he chuckles at the sight of the duck acting so human. He could understand; afterall, there was once a time when... Before thoughts of the past enter his head, he flips his long bangs from his face as a distraction, and plops himself onto the linens. Sitting up, he watches Duck, like every night, to be sure she doesn't fly off . In the beginning, she was restless about living together. She still acted like a... Well, it didn't matter. He wouldn't allow Duck to be sleeping outside in the cold. He knew well enough how ditzy she could be. Because it was Duck, he convinced her to sleep in his bed. He couldn't have her doing stupid things, since she was so small and delicate-looking. Looking at her now, she still appears that way.
Fakir knows better, that she is strong, but not in the physical sense. He strokes the side of her face with his index finger. With one wing stretched over the pillow, legs drooping into the folded sheets, Duck is fast asleep. Which means...
Fakir straightens up and walks towards the nearby desk. He picks up a feathered pen with his right hand, an ink well and parchment with his left.
He could now start writing without her noticing. He lights a candle and begins his secret nightly routine.
Things haven't been going well for him. He dips the pen and keeps a steady hand over the paper. Eventually, a black drop soaks into the paper. Nothing comes to him. Nothing has come to him since that time, when he wrote the town back into restoration. For the past few months, it's driven him crazy. He watches the candle burn, and whispers in frustration. "Why?" He angrily grips his pen, but the empty paper frustrates him even more. The pen sets into the ink well as Fakir pushes his fingers against his forehead. "Why...will nothing come?"
"How disappointing."
Fakir's green eyes widen and flood with fear. That's not Duck's voice...
"You are a blood heir, and yet your talents run so dry. Dry as a well!" It couldn't possibly be, he denies the thought, but it's not enough. He must affirm it.
"Whoever you are, get out." A second of tense silence follows. He gets up from his chair and scans the room. He glances at the bed to be sure Duck is safe. Her soft, almost inaudible whistles calm his nerves.
"You still haven't realized it yet, boy?" Fakir spins around and faces a silent cement wall. The voice keeps echoing... in Fakir's head. "We haven't had a good chat in awhile. By the way, you won't find me. I'm in a place you can't see me." Fakir starts imagining the sounds of cogs, and he shakes the insane assumption out of his mind.
"You are an ancestor?" he asks, both apprehensive and hopeful. His conflicted emotions show in his face, on a spinning cog in Drosselmeyer's black abyss. The old ghost of a man leans forward in his levitating rocking chair, resting on the flat surface of a massive, rusty unmoving cogwheel. "Answer me. You are, aren't you?"
Drosselmeyer sighs heavily, disappointed in the deduction skills of the boy who inherited his powers. "Yes... Yes, I am. I am an ancestral spirit." It's probably best to just go with Fakir's convoluted ideas. Realizing this, his eyes suddenly spark with inspiration. "I have come to see what's troubled you in the past fort-night."
Fakir rubs his head. "Troubled me?" He sits in by the desk and sighs with exhaustion, while Drosselmeyer mixes a teacup with a dainty spoon in suspended animation. "Honestly," Fakir grumbles, "I'm hopeless. This cursed blood," he raises his arm to look at the bulging vein in his writing arm. It's been looking a bit strange lately... "this damned power does not even a drop of good for a mind that no longer works." With a sudden need of effort, he slowly grips his quill and raises the tip to the candlelight. It's dry. "Two moons have passed since I resolved in myself to help Duck. They have been two full moons of empty thoughts." His breathe fumes. "How am I to save her when nothing will come to me?" He can't bring himself to look at the duck in his bed. In a voice too soft for Drosselmeyer to hear, he admits, "she is obviously not happy". Truthfully, he's been thinking too. Everyday, he wonders if he's the only one breaking their promise.
Feeling terribly guilt-ridden, Fakir speaks to the spirit again. "I can't grasp it. It all came so easily when," he hesitates. He's thought of it, but never spoken it. "...when the Raven was defeated and the town restored. Why did the quill stop when I considered Duck's happiness? All I wanted was to restore at least a voice to her-"
The voice abruptly stops him. "You pitiful son!" Fakir nearly jumps, as it bellows in his head. "You son of my son of my son! You wretched excuse of a writer—no, protege!" A dark chuckle follows. "How could anyone possibly consider one such as yourself a real writer." Drosselmeyer allows the words to sink in and disarm Fakir's heart a bit. He sets the stage for a terrifying revelation. In the dark void, surrounded by cogs, he transmits a cryptic laugh into Fakir's head.
"You have considered it, have you not?"
Fakir's hairs rise from the laughter, then wonders what could have brought on such a question. "What are you talking about?" he asks.
"How you became accessible to these powers, of course!" His skin pricks, and he is suddenly conscious of how cold spring nights can be. The mockery in the voice of this ancestor is eerily familiar. He wonders again what exactly this spirit is trying to convey.
"I," he hesitates, "inherited this power."
"Ah ha! Therein lies the mystery," he says with another hair-raising chuckle. "I've heard less famous men say, 'the job of an artist is always to deepen the mystery'. What blaspheme! It is art solely because the mystery is all-too-clear in this case."
"What are you rambling about?" Fakir rests his shoulder on the desk and lifts his head. His eyes widen with understanding. "What...are you getting at?"
His arm gives way and he falls onto the desk, his right arm shaking uncontrollably. It won't stop shaking!
"Ah, that's another mystery!"
Fakir struggles to hold his arm down. After a few seconds, the seizing quells, and he answers the spirit. "The mystery, as you say, is the fact I have his blood. I still don't see you're intention."
"It's simple," the voice, now calm, replies. "Aren't you curious as to what ties us together?" Fakir remembers his conclusion just before his arm went into a fit. "Are you not interested in the one who helped Drosselmeyer's family line extend?"
~Now, dear reader, let me introduce to you, the grain of sand that escaped the hourglass.~
Fakir falls silent, as the disturbing thought seeps into his brain. His wife... Who was she?
~Let me take you to another story, trapped in the sands of time~
"Oh, how exciting! This is a story about a writer, isn't it? A tragedy no doubt," the old man chuckles, curling his fingers, not knowing that this story...is about him.
~Once upon a time, there was a man who died~
~Indeed, this man was tragic. For when he was living, he was foolish enough to believe in something even more absurd than tragedy—love~
Tali's Notes:
Did you read it? Do you like it? I CERTAINLY HOPE SO!
I feel like the villains never get a proper story to themselves. Drosselmeyer definitely has some explaining to do.
Since he's dead, I'll tell his story for him!
...Can you tell I'm having a lot of fun with this?
Well, be prepared. This story is inspired by some Grimm Brothers reading. It's certainly not as dark as their works, but it's shady, and I'll leave it at that.
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