A/N: For Tutu Contest week one, theme Edgar Allan Poe. Based on his short story "The Masque of the Red Death".

And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. ~Edgar Allan Poe, "The Masque of the Red Death"

I. Blue Chamber

I was ten when someone first spoke the word to me. Not whispered, not mouthed, but "Don't go anywhere there's ravens," from my mother's pursed lips.

I didn't understand why her eyes filled with fear when she saw me kneel down in front of the skinny little girl who wore feathers, the one that jittered when I touched her. She'd looked cold that day, so I offered her my silver shawl. She declined.

Later, I would come to realize she wasn't cold, but in a perpetual state of shivering and drawing into herself.

Later, I would come to realize that my mother wasn't upset because of the girl, as I believed. The ravens weren't an excuse. They were real and horrible.

II. Purple Chamber

I soon lost the shawl. I looked for it at Fakir's house. His mother and mine were friends, and I last remembered it there. As the months dragged on, I discovered my mother had destroyed it, burnt the pretty silver shawl she'd made for me.

But I kept coming over even when I knew I would find no shawl, just to talk to Fakir. He'd read me his stories. Sometimes babble on about how, after his penning the scene, his father had actually taken him out for sweets and sometimes it felt like he was transcribing instead of writing, like the words were already there.

Of course, I chalked it up to an overactive imagination. One day, he caught me rolling my eyes. "No, it's real!" he insisted, then took me out to the forest to prove it.

He started to write something about leaves, but saw a crow terrorizing a sparrow. Fakir scribbled something, and the crow stopped its pursuit, turned as if mesmerized, glided toward us.

I screamed. Fakir giggled and wrote something else, and the crow stopped right before it ran into me, shuffled backward, spread its wings, and bowed its head.

I should have been absolutely terrified. Maybe, if I had screamed some more, or said it was wrong, then—

But no. I giggled with Fakir, and asked him what else he could do. I acted like a fool, and everyone paid.

Sometimes, the scene comes up, clear as yesterday, in my thoughts. Within the realm of my mind, I scold Fakir, draw him away, tell him that he shouldn't mess with crows, ravens, things that are more than natural. I hide his pens and papers, I talk to his parents, my parents, anyone who will listen.

I save him.

III. Green Chamber

A sunny evening half a year later, my father bolted my windows and locked me in my room. When I screamed at him from behind my door, all he could say was that mother had asked him to, he was sorry, don't go out, don't try and break out, please, darling girl. Mother will tell you later.

I thought I was eleven and a month years old, not some child who needed to be punished for innocence. I argued and he called my mother. She'd just started to tell me what a good girl I was when knocking resounded.

My parents answered the door, and after a couple minutes they came back and talked low.

"What happened?" I asked.

My mother sighed. "Father and I are going to see…"

"There was a raven attack," my father said. "Until we know that you'll be safe, you've got to stay here."

From behind the door I heard my mother start to sob.

IV. Orange Chamber

The fire wasn't caused by ravens, but the whisper was there all the same. This time, I was twelve and outside when it happened, so I joined the mass of onlookers. Fakir was there, too, and Mytho—his companion, the enigma with the empty heart.

Every time Fakir told me of his being the knight to protect Mytho's prince, I wanted so badly to tell him his protection had done him in before. But shock or depression or what have you had burned the scene of his parents' deaths from his mind.

Thank god.

But it still hurt to see him.

Suddenly, Mytho bolted from the crowd and into the house. Fakir screamed his name and for him to stop, but then rushed forward.

I caught his hand. "Fakir."

"I can't let him—" he looked at me, saw my eyes, and stilled himself.

I was in the hallway when Mytho regained consciousness. I heard Fakir's tone darken, and I pressed my back to the wall and closed my eyes. No use. They still filled with tears.

Fakir came stomping out of the room. He was crying, too.

"Don't be so hard on him," I said.

"Mind your own business. He could have died!"

I took Fakir's hand. "Let's take a walk, okay?"

He steered me toward the route he always took with Mytho. But instead of bounding ahead, he scuffled his shoes and stuck his hands deep in his pockets.

"Mytho's going to be okay," I said.

"He doesn't know what's good for him. He'd throw his life away for a stupid bird. I have to protect him."

"For what?" I asked. My real question lingered on my tongue. For what: your fairytale or your parents?

"I'm his knight. I have to."

"It's a story."

He pointed to a crow circling overhead. "The Prince and the Raven is a story, right, Mr. Crow?"

"Stop it."

"Raetsel—"

"I know! I know. But the crows don't attack…often. And you don't have to have that be you if you don't want to." He walked on ahead of me. "Fakir!"

He turned. His expression was older, damaged again. "I want to."

V. White Chamber

Sixteen years old. Having Charon of all people be the host of the small party commemorating my acceptance into the Advanced Painting class simply made my victory sweeter. Along with my parents, Charon, and Hans, Fakir came and brought Mytho with him. Everyone that I considered family was there. I couldn't have been happier.

After dinner, my father sat down at the piano and played as others called out song titles. He instructed us to keep singing, got up, and swept my mother into a dance as everyone carried the song.

Then he sat back down. I dragged Fakir from Mytho's side to try a fast-tempo ditty. Hans offered his hand to me. I took it and we waltzed. But even as Hans spun me around, my eyes were on one person and one person only.

I let go of Hans and walked over to him. "Charon?"

He looked at my mother, who shrugged. "I suppose," Charon said, and took my hand in his. My father played a slow, easy melody. Charon didn't look me in the eye. But that didn't matter as much. As long as we were dancing, his hand around my waist, it would be a party I'd always remember.

Then, everyone urged Mytho to dance with me, since he had newly shown interest in ballet. "Okay," he said, voice devoid of anything meaningful. His hands on me were cold, and his gaze kept flickering to the window. Halfway through the song, he wandered away from me.

I opened my mouth to ask him, but Fakir stopped me. "He's always like this," he whispered to the party. "Whenever he sees…"

A crow flapped at the window. Mytho reached up and touched the glass.

Fakir bounded forward and waved his arm over the window. "Go! Shoo!"

The crow left. Silence cloaked the party. At last, my father began to play again, but there would be no more dancing.

VI. Violet Chamber

He found out, and it was my fault, entirely.

I sat in the mill, watching the crows congregate. That never meant good. Charon taught me, once: when there are too many birds, go if you can. Don't stick around and don't wait for them to hurt you.

And here they were, circling the building, raising a ruckus, and I couldn't bring myself to leave. I never saw the bodies, the ones Charon talked about in his sleep, the ones Fakir blotted from his mind. But I knew. I knew the dangers.

I sat. I waited.

The door opened. Mytho stood there, hand outstretched, ready to finish our dance.

I should have known something was wrong. As we danced out of the mill and my wedding dress appeared and descended onto me, the crows whirled about us, but Mytho paid absolutely no attention to them.

VII. Red Chamber

Hans and I were fixing dinner at our home when the tremors started. It upset the soup. Hans rushed forward to steady it as I dried the spill.

"What's happening?" Hans asked.

"I don't know, but I'll bet it has something to do with—"

At that moment, the front windows shattered. Darkness fell over the town.

Hans sprang forward and wrapped me in his arms.

"With the ravens," I finished.

"Raven attacks don't…involve…this…" Hans walked to the window and surveyed the damage. He turned to me, expression mimicking Fakir's when he looked at Mytho, Charon's when he looked at Fakir. "Let's go to the attic."

"The windows there are probably broke, too. My mother's house—"

"Do we have boards anywhere here?"

"We've got to leave!"

We both stared at each other. Then Hans walked to me and held me again. I listened to his heartbeat. No need to panic. We had come so far to be stopped by mere birds.

"Charon's is closer," Hans said. "We can go there."

I realized. "Charon's!"

"Darling?"

"Fakir is out there, I know it. We've got to go find him."

"But he's—"

A dark voice boomed from above. "If you don't, I will rip the prince's heart into little pieces."

"See? The prince is Mytho. He'll be there, protecting Mytho. I have to stop him."

Hans looked at the window again.

"Please."

He gasped. "It's…come here."

I did. Massive drops of blood splattered on the pavement. "Let's go find Fakir," I said.

"But—"

"This time, if I fail…"

"Okay." Hans sighed and opened the door. We walked out into the darkness.

Immediately, a glob of red landed on my shoulder.

This time, I screamed. Screamed my lungs out and clutched at the blood travelling down my dress.

I fell to my knees. When I looked up, Hans's beautiful brown eyes were large and black and glossed over. Feathers crept out of his face. There was red all down his shirt. He stumbled toward me.

The place on my shoulder where the blood hit me started to prickle. I looked up and saw the glint of eyes and beak looming on the horizon.

"It's come for us," I said, but halfway through, my words became a caw.