Charon sank into his seat, rubbing his temples. He heard the door slam and opened his mouth to chastise Fakir. But the boy was long gone, off to save his Prince.
Charon smiled. He hadn't smiled in a long time. Yet ever since Princess Tutu had taken the red presence from his chest, the dark doubts and bitter what-ifs failed to haunt him. He knew now. Fakir would help himself, if only because no one else could.
Knocking echoed through his shop, immediately proving him wrong. Why was the boy back? He only had so much time before the Seductress took his Prince away.
"Charon, weapons shop owner." The voice was nasally, prideful, and most definitely not Fakir's. "Come on, open up. I don't have all day."
"Yes, yes." Charon shuffled to the door. He wasn't all that receptive to customers at this time of night. "Who is it?"
In the doorframe stood a boy with dark purple hair, glasses, and an irritated scowl. "I have come for information."
"Please, go to the library. All I have are weapons, and I would like to sleep." Charon reached for the latch.
A pale hand caught his arm. "Not so fast. I know that. But the librarian was not friends with a certain couple killed by ravens over a dozen years ago. I will find that information from you. Correct?"
No one should have known. And yet this prissy academy student…Charon sighed. "Come in. I don't have anything for you to drink, but I have a chair and an ear for listening."
"And the knowledge."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
As it turned out, the boy, Autor, was an expert at getting ahead of himself. He babbled on and on, citing no less than a dozen sources and five different versions of the raven attack that had taken Fakir's parents.
"All wrong." Charon shook his head.
"I know." Autor looked breathless with anticipation. "So tell me what's right."
"You're a complete stranger."
"I may be their son."
Charon looked up. "Impossible."
"I don't have parents." Autor leaned over the table. "I am the exact right age. I have traced their bloodline and it comes down to one thing."
"Autor," Charon put his palm up. "Shush. You are not their son."
"Even if the one that was six at the time isn't me, there was another baby that was kidnapped. I could be—"
Charon broke down. Autor obviously knew too much. "What will you do if I tell you the information?"
"I will be satisfied knowing. The truth will never grace my lips."
Charon looked into Autor's eyes and realized the boy was not lying. The boy, in fact, would probably be to prideful in his secret knowledge to even think about letting his tongue slip.
So Charon started from the beginning and relayed the story of the deaths, Fakir's writing, his taking the boy in. Autor listened intently, reactions perfectly timed, the best of audiences.
Charon was a simple man. Before he learned his trade, he had loved caring for the town's children. He knew it was all terribly important—the knight and the prince, the story, the ever-present threat of raven attack—but other people could bother with that. Autor could bother with that.
Fakir would have an ally. Charon would have someone to listen.
When he finished, Autor stood up. "Thank you. I have enjoyed our talk."
"Please, don't tell Fakir," Charon sighed. "The poor boy has suffered enough."
"Art must be suffered for."
"He will not write again."
"But—"
Charon stood up. "My son will never remember his parents. He will never have to deal with that pain. He will never feel the burden of his powers."
"I think I'm his sibling." Autor said. "I think I have the powers."
"Stay away from them." Charon put his hand on Autor's shoulder, slowly lowered the boy back into the chair. "Dance or play an instrument or draw or act. You cannot give people happiness by controlling them."
"The story—"
Charon withdrew his hand. "You promised not to tell."
Autor nodded. "I will not. Thank you." He bowed out before Charon could stop him again.
Charon breathed deeply and traced the pattern of the woodwork with his eyes to keep from crying.
Walking home, Autor felt as if he could fly. As if any moment, his feet would lift off the ground. How had he not noticed before? It was Fakir. It had to be Fakir. The knight, and the descendant.
A real story, a real man, and a fantastical fate.
Autor reached the music school just as the last rays of sun trickled off the horizon. He walked the empty hallways, keeping the echoes of his footsteps in a rhythmic waltz. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. He-was-the-son. He-was-the-son.
He reached his favorite study room, opened the door, giving not a thought to the ominous creak that echoed. Autor fiddled around in his pocket for a match, then lit the candle next to the grand piano.
He opened the lid. Within the belly of his instrument, there was a large sheet of paper. Autor unrolled it, closed the piano, and laid it out.
Under the last branch of the family tree, he wrote two names. Fakir, Autor. And then crossed his out. No, he could not be sure yet. He could not let the obvious conclusions become fact when they were merely exceedingly educated guesses.
He sat down, and began to play a piece he was working on. Autor let himself get distracted by music. The candle burned lower and lower. Its light danced on the paper.
He needed that. If he would put his soul into his fingers and mold himself to an instrument, someone had to appreciate it. Someone had to stand beside him and make beautiful movements. Someone had to show him his genius in ways he couldn't see himself.
Even if that someone was just light and shadow playing off a diagram.
Except occasionally it wasn't.
Autor stopped playing and started listening. More music than he could ever pound out of the keys echoed through the room; there was a symphony in that shallow breathing.
"Hello." she said. Her voice was a chiaroscuro.
"Glad you could make it." he closed his eyes, tried to feel her in the room. There was no need for names.
Light footsteps. She tried to hunt silently, like an owl, but he always thought her more suited as a swan.
"I was waiting for you," he said. His fingers began to probe the keys again, searching.
"I know. Where did you come from?" she was closer now.
He suddenly realized he'd left the family tree on top of the piano. Damn it. "I do not see a need to tell you." A hand grasped his shoulder. He reached up and entwined his fingers in hers. Cold skin on cold skin. Softly, he said, "I'm sorry."
"I'm not telling you where I've been tonight, either."
Autor smiled. "No. You aren't."
"Mind if I turn on the light?" her hand snaked down his chest. "To dance for you?"
"Please, no," Autor leaned back on the bench. "I promised you that I would do nothing to stop the progression of this by candlelight. Let it begin and end by candlelight."
"Ah," she traced his collarbone through the fabric of his uniform. "Talk of the end."
"That's not what I meant," he said quickly. "A beginning."
"Are they ever different?"
He started to play again, feeling out the symphony. Her hands suddenly were upon his, entwining fingers. It made an ugly sound on the keys.
"Stop," she said. "It's useless."
The inevitable. He could not allow himself to be happy yet—happiness was for jesters or kings, and he was neither for the time being. And she plain would not allow herself to be happy. She was losing. He did not know what, how, but in every touch he sensed her defeat.
In the darkness, it was easier to give in. With strangers, it was easier to tell the truth.
"We will never speak outside of midnight," he recited their terms. She would understand why. "We will never speak of each other to others. We will never speak falsehoods."
She finished for him. "We will never speak of this lasting."
No matter how badly he wanted to. No matter how it hurt to see her in the halls, on the arm of another boy, the one who always had a stupid look on his face. They would pass each other, making no eye contact. He would dig his nails into his arm to keep from reaching out to her.
"What…what happened tonight?" he asked.
"I danced until dawn."
"With who?"
"The time of night."
Round answers, perfectly bent to keep him going in circles. "I am close to figuring everything out," he said. Vague, but no fancy wordplay to disguise it. That would have been too close to lying for his comfort.
"When you do, we should celebrate."
They had not moved in what seemed like eons. Now, her fingers pushed down on his, and they coaxed the growl of a wounded animal out of the piano.
"I love you," he said.
"Sorry."
He turned. Autor could barely make out her face in the candlelight. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. But more than that, she was that grotesque sound of too many hands searching for not enough notes. Not sorry. Afraid. Of losing, of staying, of him.
He kissed her. She grabbed his face, almost violently. He fumbled around in the dark for her hair, but found her uniform and clung to that. She pulled away first, then sat down on the bench next to him.
"That hurt," he said.
"Tomorrow night?" she asked. "I have a decision to make."
"What about?"
"Whether to assimilate with myself."
Autor rolled the parchment up.
"It's just that…I feel like I have been living two different lives. Fragments. I want to be whole. But at the same time I don't know that person."
Autor put the cover down on the piano. "Are you asking me whether to declare this…this companionship we have publicly?"
"No."
So much for being obtuse about it. Autor laughed. "Good night." he blew out the candle and stood up.
"I will arrive as my true being tomorrow." her words were even eerier in total darkness.
He nodded, even though she couldn't see it. He closed his eyes, listened to her go.
It was the only way to get rid of him.
Rue wrapped her arms around herself and shook. The thorns were in her skin again, flowing through her veins. Her black toeshoes lay in the corner, waiting. His touch was still warm on her.
She remembered things now, glimpses of a different life, a darker her. Instead of another voice inside her, it was a shoreline, lapping waves over and over again. A little bit of water, a lot of time, and her entire being would erode.
She couldn't deny it now. Tomorrow she would wake up blanketed in black feathers, and spend the entire morning dusting them off her bed. She would play prima ballerina and dance with Mytho. She would ignore Autor. He would glare at her from behind his glasses and she would smile and recite to Mytho:
You love me.
He would tell her he loved her.
But when they danced, something in her would recognize she was not his true partner. She would run out of the room and spend her evening in silence, watching the crows congregate.
When night fell, the toe-shoes would appear again. She would slip them on her feet.
It would hurt.
She would hurt.
She would hurt them.
And then she would come to him, and normally—normally she'd watch him play, and try and get a reaction out of him as he tsk-tsked at her. She'd try to shut him up. It wouldn't work. The past couple of weeks, he'd taken to saying stupid things about how he loved her.
But no more. Tomorrow night she would appear to him as Kraehe. She would dance for him, but this time he would join her.
She would reach into his chest.
"You were a fool," she would whisper as she clawed her way out of his life.
Then she would wash the blood off her hands. Go to sleep. Wake up to find she'd shed more of herself. She lived and died in feathers every night.
Autor had been meaning to go to Charon's house for more information that morning. Instead, he'd found himself following her and the boy—ahead of them right now, but every once and a while, he turned to glance behind.
Music snapped him out of his thoughts.
He looked up to see a strange woman with an organ grinder, twirling the cog again and again.
Alright. Autor would wait here and let her get ahead of him.
"Would you like a jewel?" she asked, voice whimsical.
The organ grinder popped open to reveal an assortment of diamonds and other such things. "No, probably not," Autor said, waving his hand over them. Did she see his eyes flicker sideways and watch the boy and girl slowly approaching?
"But I am sure you feel a connection to one of them," she said. "Courage? Regret? Boredom? Or maybe…"
Her fingers touched his and she brought his hand in front of a caramel-colored pendant.
"What's that?" he leaned in closer. It was beautiful. Like the eyes of the stupid boy, with a rainbow of colors flickering across the surface.
"Love." the lady smiled and picked it up. "Would you like it?"
In his mind's eye, Autor could see himself presenting it to Rue that night, hooking it onto her uniform. Laying claim to that which was not his.
"No thank you," he said. "It's silly to believe emotions can be in jewels. Are you even selling them anyway? Why play that obnoxious grinder to advertise lies?"
"Believe what you will." She began to play the grinder again. "If you don't want love, there are many who do."
He didn't. Autor turned, and then walked on. He'd had enough of her for one day. Autor didn't have the heart to go to Charon's house. He needed freedom from human interaction right now.
He went to the Used Bookshop.
The bookseller looked up as he came in. "Ahhh, Autor. What can I do for you today?"
"Not talk and let me read," Autor said. It came out harsher than he'd intended. But the bookseller smiled at him, the lamp flickered, and Autor set off into the shelves and shelves of tattered volumes.
By the third book, he realized he was not reading. He was thinking, long and hard, about her.
Damn her. Distracting him at every turn. Seductress. Manipulative princess of black. Swans have beaks, he reminded himself. Swans can hurt you.
He didn't love her anymore.
No, that wasn't it. He loved her, he knew, but it was less of an intoxication and more of a sensation now. Loved her less. Well, he ought to, for everything she'd put him through more than merited hatred.
That was what perplexed him. Autor found it easy to hate people. Why had loving her been effortless and inescapable?
He was still staring at the same page.
Autor closed the book, thanked the bookseller, and walked back to his dormitory. He needed a nap and some tea.
"Mytho, you love me."
"Yes, I love you, Rue."
"No!"
Kraehe drew her hand across his face, but the Prince didn't even flinch. His eyes were glazed over, face expressionless. They lay in black feathers, and he did not understand she'd finally given up.
She put her hand on his chest, searching for a heartbeat. "Say Kraehe. Say, 'I love you, Kraehe.'"
"I love you, Kraehe."
"Do you want me to be happy?"
"I don't know."
Emotionless. Hers. But he had smiled at Tutu, he had given Tutu the present. He had loved Tutu. And now he could love no one.
That was good, wasn't it? But now he couldn't love her.
She curled up against him and cried. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. She could hear nothing but her own quiet sobs.
"Say, if I loved someone else, what would happen?" she asked, trying to push back the sadness in her voice.
"I don't know," he said. And then, meekly, "You would love someone else."
She could have loved a mockingbird. She could have been a swan. Kraehe kissed him. "What if I kissed someone else?" ran her fingers down his jawline. He didn't even tremble. "Someone who could feel me touch them?"
He just stared at her with those blank, blank eyes. They didn't even look sad anymore.
She stood up. "Stay there, Mytho."
"I will stay here."
Kraehe gazed at him, and suddenly, he changed. His eyes were lilac discs, his hair dark, glasses askew on his face.
What would happen if she hurt him like this? Would she lose the only person who ever loved her?
The breath caught in her throat. "Would you like a companion, Mytho?" she asked. "Someone who doesn't understand like you do?"
He didn't respond.
"You love me," she said.
"I love you." he mimicked.
She left.
She did not bother to change back into Rue. Kraehe went straight for the music academy.
He was in the room as always, laboring over the piano, burning daylight and playing tribute to its smoke.
She danced over to the lamp in the corner of the room and lit it. Then the other corner, another lamp, bring the spark out of her fingertips. The strong notes faltered, and he began to mess up. Covering his tracks with beautiful music, but shocked all the same.
The room was light.
He stood up.
"That's a beautiful costume," he said, voice weak.
"This is who I really am," she spread her arms. "Princess Kraehe, the true prima donna." she circled her hands above her head and offered it to him, the gesture Tutu always used. "Dance with me."
"I can't dance," he said quickly. He stared down her outfit, blush dusting his cheeks. "This is silly. Put your Academy uniform back on."
She reached out and began to twirl to the music he was no longer playing, every move an invitation. Come. Come to me.
"You…you are a beautiful girl," he fumbled around with his words. "A wonder, a wonderful dancer. But I cannot let this go on."
"Let me guess," she offered him her hand again. "Because you love me."
"Because you love me."
She stumbled over her feet and fell to the floor.
He would stand up for that, to go and offer her a hand. She declined it and pushed herself up. "Yes," Kraehe said, trying to keep the malice rushing in her veins right now from trickling through her words. "I love you."
"You don't think so, but you do," he stared at the ground. "I can't dance. But…"
She took his hand and led him through a simple waltz. With a wave of her hand, the piano keys began to press on themselves. The music was dark and enchanting. He had played it for her once. "Love only me," Kraehe whispered.
"I love only you," he said.
"Turn your back on the world and hate all others." she stroked along his chest, outlining his heart.
"I will hate all others," he said.
"Give your beautiful heart to me, Princess of Ravens."
He stopped mid-dance. "My heart is yours."
The black feathers began to grow out of her arms, twisting and layering over each other. She opened her wings. "Come into my arms."
He threw his head back, and crow swordsmen melted out of the floor and reached up, carrying him toward her. The glasses fell off his face as they lifted him higher and higher.
He slowly drifted toward her.
Kraehe cackled, watching the boy fall into her trap. Then she remembered what he would be like. Another doll for her dollhouse. He would never truly love her after this. She would ask him when she still could.
"Say you love me. Say you know it in your heart."
"I love you, Rue," he said.
"No!" she pushed her wings forward. "Kraehe. Princess Kraehe."
He lay in front of her, expressionless. She reached out and lay a hand on his chest. "Say 'I love you, Kraehe.'" He didn't answer. She gripped the material of his shirt. "Say it!"
"I never loved you like this," he whispered. "I want to say it of my own will."
"This is your will." she unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. One of the swordsmen took it. "You chose this."
His head lolled back again. She dug her nails into his shirt and ripped away a hole large enough to stick her hand through. She touched his chest and felt around for his heartbeat.
"You were a…" she started.
He finished for her. "I was a fool."
She hissed and dug her nails into his skin.
"But when you listened to me play you were a swan." he said. "I love only you. I will hate all others."
Without her consent, the hand that had been reaching for his heart forcefully pushed him away from her. The pedestal she stood on began to sink into the ground. Kraehe jumped off it, and turned around.
She didn't want his heart. She'd never wanted him at all.
She walked to the end of the room and watched the darkness beyond the door. The caw of a crow near the window echoed through the silence. She was not a swan. He could never be a prince. Nothing should have happened between them. Whatever thing they'd made together had begun and ended in the same moment.
She shouldn't have allowed herself to get close to a normal human.
That was Rue's job, to be breakable.
Kraehe felt a hand on her shoulder. She pushed it off and turned around. He stood, glasses askew on his face, glare piercing.
"Don't touch me," she said.
"What the hell was that?" his hands balled into fists. "I trusted you with my heart and you were about to—you were about to—"
"I didn't, okay?" she stared at the ground.
"This is over," he pushed his glasses up, obscuring his eyes. "I did as you asked even though I knew our relationship was not mutually beneficial. I never spoke of this lasting, even watching you with that idiot."
"Mytho is not an idiot!" she ground her teeth together. "He's mine."
"Mytho," his voice was flat. "Mythos."
"What?"
"Story," his eyes widened. "Fakir calls himself a knight for Mytho. Like…the Prince and the Raven…the knight of the story. I never realized it before."
"Keep babbling about your stupid theories," she started to walk out the room. "I don't care anymore."
"You called yourself the Princess of Ravens."
"Shut up!" she closed the door on his face.
He pushed it open. "Fakir is the Knight. You are the Raven. There have been rumors of…Princess Tutu…then Mytho is…"
"He is my prince."
"He is the Prince who loves everyone."
"Don't be silly," she laughed. "He can't love. He can't even feel. I'm starting to wish you couldn't either."
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Don't you understand what this means?"
She looked up. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wild.
"Drosselmeyer is not dead. The story still encompasses the town. We're all characters in his magnificent tragedy." Autor ran a hand through his hair, his laughter almost maniacal.
"The Prince and the Raven was a lie." Kraehe grabbed his wrists and urged his hands off her shoulders. "Father said so. The cycle will be broken. I have been to Drosselmeyer's grave. The old man's in the ground."
"Tell me everything about your story," he grabbed her hand and fell to his knees. "Please. This was my research. You know what I would give for you."
She stared down at him. A pitiful human, caught up in things beyond his control. "Look," she wrenched her hand from his grip, biting back another "don't touch me". "You don't need to know. Get out of the story. There is no happiness for any of us here. Leave Kinkan and spend your time researching things that matter."
He stood up. "If you tell me what you were going to do to me."
They glared at each other. Kraehe wanted to lie, but the words were not coming. There would be no harm in giving him a fairy-tale ending, right? A dozen different situations in which she abandoned Mytho and chose him ran through her head.
She hated every one.
Kraehe leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't a particularly long or intense kiss, but they were both panting when the contact was broken.
"I would have carved your heart out of your chest and sacrificed it to my Father, the Raven," she said.
The horrified expression on his face said it all. But it didn't matter anymore. It was impossible for him to love her.
She walked into the darkness. She needed to go back to Mytho. She needed to hurt him and then ask her if he loved her, just to prove what useless things people were with their emotions intact.
Autor closed the door as she left. He sat down at the piano and let his fingers hover over the keys.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them. He put his vest on again and tried to arrange it in front of the hole in his shirt. He went around the room and turned off all the lamps. He opened the piano's lid and took out the scroll, ink, and a quill pen. Autor nibbled on the nub, then decided there was nothing to write.
The candle was low, almost extinguished.
He unrolled the paper and held it over, watching the flames lick the it hungrily. He burned out as many words as he could before the candle went out and he was left in darkness.
Autor ripped the paper in half. Then squared up the two pieces, tore them again. There was immense pleasure in destruction. He couldn't fault Drosselmeyer for that.
Within seconds, his work was scraps on the floor.
Autor walked out of the room, through the hallways, out of the music school, and to the dormitories. He considered going to the girl's. But no. He had no business with her anymore.
So he went to the boy's rooms, found Fakir and Mytho's. Autor knocked five times. No answer. He tried the doorknob and it was open.
So he slowly went inside.
Fakir was wrapped in blankets with his clothes still on, red stains dotting his sheets and bandages covering his arms. Sleeping against the side of Mytho's bed was none other than Princess Tutu.
Autor stared at both of them.
He could deny it no longer. Charon's pleas be damned, the story was in motion. Drosselmeyer's descendant lay sleeping in front of him, with a character from Drosslemeyer's own stories.
He cleared his throat.
The room was silent.
No one moved. The sleeping figures didn't even seem to breathe. Light began to filter through the curtains.
Day already?
No, it wasn't sunlight, but something eerily similar to the spotlights the theatre used. Autor looked around, careful not to move. Had he just caught himself in another trick of Rue's?
A faint sound echoed in his ears.
Autor slowly approached Fakir's bed, grasping boy's shoulder. "Fakir?" he shook him. Fakir did not move.
Now Autor placed his hand on the boy's heart, and…heard not one beat.
No. The story could not be finished with before he got a hold on it. The knight was the only chance to connect with Drosselmeyer. Why didn't he see the truth before it was too late?
The sound solidified, a sort of grinding.
Autor collapsed against the bed, grabbing the sheets and shaking. Too late. The advice of the Scholar was always…too late…
He had not been able to save Rue from that monster called Kraehe the Raven. Now Fakir had met his fate head-on. No one but Autor seemed to know that you could fight it with the right tools, but he'd left his pen and ink back at the music school. He'd left her.
The meticulous clacking of gear upon gear echoed through the room.
"My, my," said a big, booming voice. "Quite dangerous to assume you will be the one to change the story, eh?"
Autor looked behind him.
In the shadow of the table on the floor, a gigantic caramel eye, the exact color of the jewel Love, had appeared.
Autor gasped and sprang to his feet. "I knew you'd come for me," he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I could just tell. I am your true descendant, and now that the princess has lost herself to the Raven and the knight is dead—"
"Ah-ah-ah," a man with a scarlet cape, white dreadlocks, and a silly hat appeared in the doorway. "Do not be quick to assume that has happened."
"What?" Autor approached the man. "Rue can go back to being Rue? Oh, of course," he realized now. "How silly of me. It's my task, right? To bring the Raven Princess from the depths of despair. To make her finally understand that someone other than the Prince can love her."
"Why, yes," Drosselmeyer swung a pocketwatch with his initial on it back and forth, back and forth. Autor's eyes followed its path. "Would you like to know how you can do that?"
"I will storyspin."
"No, no," Drosselmeyer threw back his head and laughed. "You don't have the powers, dear boy. You are, in fact, absolutely useless to the story knowing what you do."
"If Fakir isn't dead, I can teach him your ways. I don't have to be the descendant. But I will influence the story."
"Do you really want to?" Drosselmeyer asked.
"Yes." Autor stepped forward.
Drosselmeyer reached out and put his hand on Autor's shoulder. Autor shivered; the touch of a God.
"You will not remember any of this," Drosselmeyer said. "Not Rue, not the story, not my existence. You will continue to research the Prince and the Raven."
"If the story wills it…" Autor could barely hear his own voice.
"After we speak, the Raven will take Rue into his arms and make her forget all about you."
"But—"
Drosselmeyer grinned. "You never did speak of your love lasting, after all."
Kraehe awoke curled up next to Mytho. She rubbed her eyes and discovered flak in them, as if she had been crying.
Yes, she had been. Crying over how her Prince could not love her, how enamored he was of the one person that had not loved him long enough. But there was a way. She knew it in her heart.
"Herr von Drosselmeyer," she called.
She did not know how she knew the name. When she thought of it later, it was simple—she had seen it on the cover of the Prince and the Raven. But when she said it then, the only image in her mind was a candle stub and darkness.
Autor awoke with a headache, a bad cough, and the memory of a girl in an outfit made of dark feathers dancing bewitchingly.
He tried for the life of him to remember where it was from. He went through dozens of ballet books in the library, and settled for that costume in Swan Lake. But he had never seen Swan Lake in his life. So who was she?
One day, after playing in a recital, he stayed to watch the ballet school perform Coppelia. One dancer stood out. She looked eerily similar to the dream girl. He didn't remember seeing her before, but the subconscious was a mysterious thing.
He watched her dance as if on strings.
"Who's that?" he whispered to the green-haired girl next to him.
"Rue," she sighed. "Isn't she beautiful?"
He nodded slowly.