Yet another fic from me. More recent, this time! I love Princess Tutu, but the storyline is so tight, it's hard to fit anything in. I didn't want to cover the end all over again, so I managed to crowbar some time in between Fakir beginning to write and the climax of the series. Beta-read by RobinRocks.
Domine Exaudi
He finds Ahiru in a corner of the library, huddled up with a look of stern concentration on her face. A book lies across her lap, open to the ending.
"What were you reading?" Fakir asks. Looking flustered, Ahiru turns her impossibly big, impossibly blue eyes to him and says,
"Fairytales. They're cruel…or Grimm." She holds up the cover with a strange, quacking laugh that used to so annoy Fakir.
"I've never read them," he shrugs. He'd rather not think about fairytales anymore. Ahiru stands and hands him the book.
"I wonder if they're true too," she says, avoiding his eyes. Fakir bites his tongue. He says,
"It's too easy to find the true ending."
Words are never meaningless. If they are, you might as well say that there is nothing in the world with meaning, nothing worth a damn, for what are words but ways to express the inner and outer of all things? Whoever thought up the phrase had never lived a fairytale, but even if they had—
Fakir knows now that there is power in language, from the tiniest single letter to the longest words in dictionary and when strung together in a certain order—
And Fakir can never find the words he needs. He starts sentences and scribbles them out; half-formed ideas hanging in space. It irritates him that a word can be on the tip of his tongue, but hides itself; that his brain moves too fast for his script to keep up. Where do they—
These days, words seem to lose their meaning. They had a purpose once, but as they're repeated over and over into redundancy, Fakir feels as though they might as well be animalistic grunts for all that they connect to---
But one thing has meaning – a small, yellow duck who might be a girl who might be a princess. A swan, a ballerina or a dear friend. Only her words have meaning and for now, he'd like to write a story whose meaning is hope.
Ahiru yawns widely, shifting her weight back and forth on spindly legs.
"Good morning, Fakir," she says as he approaches. "Why aren't you dressed for class?"
Fakir stares out of the window and says, "I need to ask Mr Cat for time off. I'm still a knight. I need to train occasionally."
Ahiru nods at this in what she hopes is a sagely manner. An awkward silence descends as she tries to think of something to say.
Outside of the fairytale, they have little in common.
"I've written another story," Fakir blurts suddenly.
"What 's it about?" Ahiru asks, clapping her hands together.
"Mytho, of course. I was trying to write an ending, but..."
"Did anything happen? Can I read it?"
"Nothing happened. Why do you always stick your nose in too far?" Fakir snaps. Ahiru rocks back, eyes wide.
"But-" she starts; Fakir interrupts with a frustrated sigh and stalks down the corridor.
"You're the one who brought it up!" Ahiru shouts after him.
"I'm sorry," Fakir says.
He's stressed and he's worried.
Ahiru just smiles brightly.
One melancholy day, Fakir skips lessons and goes looking for gods.
But he finds Ahiru instead.
"Gods?" she asks. "Why?"
"It seemed like a good idea," he shrugs. "If we're searching for a solution to everything, why not try every last possibility?"
"Oh. Do they live in the woods?" Ahiru is ever gullible.
"No, but maybe they do ballet," Fakir muses and sits down next to her on the tree stump. Ahiru grins with understanding.
"I think they write, Fakir," she says, taking his hands in hers. It's a moment of clarity usually reserved for a swan princess, not a duck, but with her eyes gleaming like that, Fakir can't bear to let her down.
It feels like all he need do is walk through that door at the end of the corridor, and the world will be changed; his failures would be forgiven and forgotten, and he can try, try again.
He does.
And it's the same bare room and the same feeling of inadequacy. But now there's an orange-haired duck girl sitting at his writing desk telling him that things will work out if you just keep believing they will.
Ahiru has walked through dark streets with creaking signs and echoing voices, her own footsteps following her through deserted squares and alleys.
Perhaps she's dreaming, perhaps she really is lost. Either way, she is tired to her bones and the tips of her non-existent wings and Mytho is nowhere to be found. It isn't just the distance she has come or the distance still to go that drags at her feet; her mind is clawing with shadowy, worrying hands.
Ahiru longs to tell the Prince of her love; three little words that constrict her throat, saving her life every time. But it's tiring to keep up such pretence, tiring to pretend her attention isn't fixed upon just one person and tiring to pretend there is nothing wrong.
But Ahiru is relentless; never stopping, barely slowing. She's a princess who can dance a pas des deux without her prince. She doesn't know what she'll do if she finds Mytho and she doesn't know why he would be out in the dark on his own.
Like she is.
A door opens, throwing light across the street. Fakir steps out and closes it. He's been watching her circle the district for nearly an hour. He sits in the doorway and holds out a hand. Ahiru shuffles her feet, then collapses down next to him like a marionette with slashed strings, falling asleep.
It's not who she was looking for but…
The purple-black sky starts to spit.
It'll be okay.
Fakir isn't surprised to find himself awkwardly huddled on Charon's doorstep. He's aching and damp, but for one warm side where Ahiru remains curled up, asleep.
It had been an inevitable passage.