Title: Afterword
Author: lostinabook
Genre: Angst/General
Rating: T (for references to violence)
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me; it is the property of Ito Ikuko.
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Chapter One: The end is the beginning…
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The study had become a mess.
Shelves had been overturned, inkwells smashed. Books lay uselessly on the floor, their covers rent like broken wings, papers scattered across the floor like discarded feathers. The door—needless to say—had been completely destroyed, with only a few fragments of wood left hanging on the hinges. Ironically enough, sunlight poured in through the open space and down the short hallway, but instead of illuminating the room, the light only threw the study into deeper shadows.
Autor sat dejectedly by the wreckage of the front door, his legs crossed and chin resting on one hand. His glasses were askew, uniform ripped at the shoulder, and a bruise the color of his hair bloomed across his left cheekbone. The Academy student was staring out into the destruction of the room, but didn't seem to see it. Autor's vision was glazed over, his mind far away…
The events of only a few hours ago kept replaying themselves over and over in his mind. In a matter of minutes, the study that had taken him years to complete, the culmination of all his research, his dreams, gone, shattered, forever.
And, of course, Fakir had to run off as soon as it was all over. He had dashed by him without so much as a thank you, not even a glance of gratitude. Autor had saved his life…if it hadn't been for him…
But the real story-spinner (Autor's jaw involuntarily tightened) got to be the hero in the end. …As for him, he had nothing now.
And to think, I have volumes upon volumes of books that I want to write…
A small gust of air blew into the room, ruffling the papers on the floor and snapping Autor out of his thoughts. Sighing deeply, he glanced over at the old man who laid spread out on the floor next to him. Autor had dragged him out of the rubble piled by the doorway shortly after Fakir had left. He wasn't really sure why he had done so. Maybe the shock of everything that had happened in the last few hours was causing him to behave irrationally.
Autor looked closer. It didn't seem like he was breathing. The black cloak the old man was wearing made him look like a dead vulture. Autor kicked at him a little. The man snorted and mumbled in response.
…Doesn't matter anyway, Autor thought, resting his head on top of his knees. The story is done… The true descendant ended it.
After a moment's thought, Autor shifted his weight so that he could face the leader of the Book Men. "So what are you going to do now?"
His voice sounded strange in the broken room. "Are you going to continue chasing Drosselmeyer's descendant?"
The man didn't answer. Autor wasn't surprised. He never answered any of his questions, conscious or not.
"Or…" His voice dropped to below a whisper, as though he were talking to himself. "…Will you pursue your own story?"
Where should he begin? How could he replace what had been lost…?
If I had the power… If I could just write a story… just one!
Autor's mind was beginning to go in circles. He didn't understand. At first, Fakir had been something akin to a test subject; Autor wanted to see if he was right about—no, he corrected himself, he knew all along that he was right. He had only wanted to see his theory in action before he tried it himself. Autor hadn't counted on Fakir being chosen, of all things. Fakir hadn't even known that he was a direct descendant of Drosselmeyer!
If it hadn't been for him… If he hadn't shared his knowledge…
That's why I need your help, Autor!
And all I'm saying is, why should I?
…Why had he bothered with helping him? Fakir had obtained the one thing in the world that Autor truly wanted—the power of the story-spinners. It would have made more sense to shun Fakir, or, at least, return to his own studies to find another way…
But he decided to help Fakir. Autor had been too excited at the revelation that his hypothesis was correct, that the town was truly controlled by stories, Drosselmeyer's stories, no less. He had been the last of the story-spinners, the legendary author who had died so long ago, and yet his power was still potent, defying the Book Men who had sent him to the grave.
And Fakir… Fakir had set himself against his ancestor by deciding to rewrite the story. For Autor, the moment was a golden opportunity; finally, he had been given the chance to observe the truth of how story-spinning worked, to see if Drosselmeyer's practices and procedures really had a bearing on whether the story became reality or if it was just coincidence.
It was a one-time opportunity that finished everything.
Honestly, he hadn't expected that Fakir would really end the story. Autor was only there to observe and advise…until the leader of the Book Men had showed up and he was forced to play bodyguard as well.
Autor knew that he had done the right thing. Fakir had been explicit enough; due to the Raven's impending release, the entire town was in danger. The story had needed to end, one way or another.
But… was it worth it?
Autor looked around at the ruins of the study once more...
The old man suddenly stirred, causing Autor to scuttle sideways until he was sitting against the opposite wall. He didn't want to be anywhere near the story-stopper while he was conscious. The leader of the Book Men sat up, blinking his saucer-plate eyes and looking around until he spotted Autor.
"Did I…miss something?"
Autor's hand involuntarily twitched. "The story is over."
"…He ended it?"
Autor decided not to merit such a stupid question with an answer.
"Well then…" The old man got to his feet. "It seems that we acted too hastily once again."
"You were the one who took rash action." Autor could barely keep the anger out of his voice. If it hadn't been for the Book Men's stupid obsession…
"Yes… I can feel it now. The control is gone." He paused. "You haven't seen my axe, have you?"
Autor glowered at him.
"…I see. Well, I'd better get going." The old man began making his way through the rubble to the front door. His lopsided silhouette made a dark shadow against the bright sunlight.
"Is that all you're going to say?!" Autor rose to his feet, hands shaking. That stupid, senile, old—
He could feel the man's eyes on him, but couldn't see anything but a vague shadow in the bright sunlight. After the darkness of the raven's wings, the light was almost blinding…
"My role here is done." His voice sounded like the creak of a book binding as it was closed.
"What about you? Are you going to continue to stand in the darkness of shattered dreams?"
"I'll do whatever I feel like!" Autor's voice cracked as he shouted. He was absolutely seething at this point. His fists clenched, his shoulders shook… He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do to the old man, but it was definitely going to involve violence.
The music student opened his mouth again to give the old man a warning… but he was already gone. There was nothing left but the blinding sunlight.
Autor turned around and kicked the wall, hard, causing dust to fall from the ceiling.
He didn't care, he didn't even apologize… Autor ground his teeth in frustration. With a few quick strides, he crossed the room and overturned the writing desk—the only thing left standing in the room—relishing the shattering noises that the last of the inkwells made as they crashed to the floor. Before the echoes had faded, he had grabbed one of the still-intact books off the floor, tearing out its pages in rapid sucession, throwing them in the air until he was in the center of a snowstorm of words.
My role here is done…
"That's right." Autor watched the papers flutter about him, unaware of the biting tone he had taken. "You're done. I'm done. Everything relating to Drosselmeyer no longer carries weight on this world. His stories are as dead as he is."
But even though he said the words, Autor couldn't bring himself to believe them.
"What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?!" The story couldn't be over, not yet. He had so much more that he had wanted to do… It wasn't fair…
The pages had fallen, the book binding was empty. Once again, Autor sunk defeated to the floor.
Fairy tales overflowed with nameless supporting characters. The evil stepmother, the kindly child, the strict master, the doting parents, the treasonous brothers, the beautiful tempress…
But what had been his role? Why had his part ended before he had even known what he had been put in the story to do?
The grandfather clock in the corner stared balefully at him.
Autor blinked uncomprehendingly. When had he acquired a clock for the study…? Surely he would have remembered bringing something that size into the room. It hardly looked as if it would fit through the doorway.
Its cracked face gleamed in the poor light, the hands no longer moving. Dust covered its wooden frame; it seemed that the clock had been broken long before last night. Autor frowned, once more trying to remember if he had brought it to the study…had he read something about Drosselmeyer liking clocks and had gone out and bought one…?
But the memories simply weren't there. Maybe it's always been here, Autor mused, and I just didn't notice it.
The breeze wound its way into the room again, almost gleefully scattering the new pages that Autor had thrown to the ground.
How could I have gotten so caught up that I can't even remember what I did or didn't bring into this study? Strangely enough, the thought made Autor vaguely disgusted with himself.
The last page fell to the floor, bearing the words THE END.
