Rosemary

by Thyme In Her Eyes

Rue struggles with the role of Giselle, as the story she's lived for so long begins to unravel. Mytho x Rue.

Rosemary

by Thyme In Her Eyes

Author's Note: At last! I'm writing for Princess Tutu and Mytho/Rue again! It's been too long! Anyway, as usual, I own nothing and am making no profit from this, and all feedback is deeply appreciated. Enjoy! This story is set in the time leading up to and during Episode 4: Giselle (and on a totally personal note, I love the ballet this episode based on). And just as a warning to everyone, I'm afraid this 'fic is mega-long. I never meant for it to be, but somehow, the story kept growing. Finally, thanks so much to TheMadPuppy for being an excellent beta and helping me so much as I crafted this story together – I'd be lost without you!

- ROSEMARY -

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.

– William Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act IV, Scene V).

x-x-x

Rue was beginning to hate dancing Giselle.

She loathed admitting, even to only herself, that her reason for resenting the part was because she was actually finding it difficult (such a stupid, childish, not to mention amateurish attitude), but it was true. The role kept evading her, as if it didn't want her, and every time she was forced to remind herself of how much further she had to go, her heart sank.

It should have come naturally; she was born for a role like this. She knew the part well, and knew Giselle in all her incarnations. She had the skill, the intensity, the musicality, the determination, and the dramatic power. It was meant to be, and when Mr. Cat announced that Giselle would be the the Academy's summer production, and that the lead role was hers (but who else could it ever belong to?), with Mytho as her Prince Albrecht, she had actually been looking forward to it. It was always going to be a challenge of course, but she had wanted to meet it.

But now, feeling the perspiration trickle down her face and back and struggling to master her breathing, while her left leg ached and protested after each rond de jambe, all her past eagerness and excitement gave way to pained confusion and deep frustration. At the end of each day, she had no choice but to leave the ballet studio, nurse her wounded pride, and determine to try harder. It was bitter work.

Worst of all, no matter how much she applied herself or how many hours she wasted in extra practice, she couldn't make it look easy. It was a fundamental failure. Almost every trace of her struggle and effort glared out for everyone to see in every pose, every movement, and in each strained line of her body. Even her expressions, normally one of her true strengths, betrayed her. Looking at her face and profile in the studio mirror, Rue could plainly see that she didn't look like a winged sylph at all. Instead, she looked like a sweating, shaking girl, and nothing more. She wasn't fooling anyone.

She'd been challenged before, but never like this. This was new, this was different, and lately she hadn't been feeling like herself at all. Something was wrong, something was slipping away from her and out of her control.

It was a ridiculous thought, but something was changing.

x-x-x

What was so different about Giselle? She'd danced other parts in the recent past, all of them leading roles and none of them easy, but she'd never faced difficulty like this, or tasted failure so often. Almost since her first days at the Academy (when exactly did she enroll? What town had she moved from, again?) she'd been the standout star amongst the girls, and she'd deserved it too. No-one wanted it the way she did.

For last year's production of Swan Lake, she'd danced Odette and Odile, and things couldn't have been more different. She had been calm and precise, yet strong. Her arms were graceful, and her legs were powerful, and she had felt so connected to both roles. It wasn't just that she'd been vulnerable and mournful as Odette and then dynamic and seductive as her doppelgänger Odile, but something in her, something deeply buried, had burst into brilliant, vibrant life as she danced both characters. They breathed in her, flowed in her. She had felt herself transformed and complete, her body utterly open and invincible, and full of beauty. In her arms, in her turns, in her smiles, in her taunting evil and heartbroken despair, she had felt so real and alive in spite of the physical strain, so much that she barely noticed she was on a stage at all.

And of course, Mytho had been there with her, as he always was. Her beautiful Prince, shining only for her with his milk-pale skin, swan-white hair, and that innate gentleness and bravery that not even being without a heart could destroy. When she danced with him, she could do anything. She could soar, and that night, she had. Everything went away, except for him, the two of them radiantly together, and she could almost close her eyes and hear the beating of wings against water. Whether she was playing at falling in love with him or stealing his heart, it had been just them dancing their pas-de-deux forever in that dream world of black and white feathers. Dancing with him was always as poignant as it was joyful, but on that night, it had been special, and all joy. She had been happy, so happy.

It was just an amateur production, but it had meant a great deal to her. And the audience – her classmates, her teachers, and many students from other divisions – had cheered and applauded. She had never felt so proud of herself.

x-x-x

When left to her own devices, she always contrived to go to the same isolated glade. Mytho knew to meet her there, and often drifted there of his own accord anyway, and the sight of him resting against their tree, almost as if waiting for her, always filled her with greedy happiness. She sat by his side and kissed him softly, before resting her dark head against his shoulders and taking his limp hand in hers. That day, she held it tighter than usual.

Sharing this beautiful place with him, Rue could feel calm again, and her thoughts gradually began to float and flutter like the stray petals falling around them. Soon, her troubles with Giselle didn't seem so important. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, breathing in the scent of his hair and skin.

How very nice it was, she told him, to be here together. How peaceful, to be so alone at last. And above all else, how beautiful life would be if only such moments could last forever.

x-x-x

Eventually, it hit her: it wasn't Giselle that was different from any other dance role. It wasn't that at all.

It was Mytho. Ever since he'd first spoken of a feeling, things had been different. That's when it had started, and it had grown worse after the second time, when he mentioned Princess Tutu. She'd never thought about such things before, but that was when she'd first had trouble synchronizing with her role.

This wasn't how things were supposed to be, and even though his changes so far were only very slight, they were enough to distract her. It was wrong, all wrong, and her mind was full of unrest. If Mytho began to change, then he could never again be the Prince who danced only for her, and ever since that first admission of his, she'd felt disturbed and uneasy, almost afraid or in dread of something she couldn't remember or name. She hated to think of it, or of things ever changing, and her thoughts often grew restless and agitated. Not even dancing could chase them away.

No. Maybe she was just imagining things, and seeing changes where there were none. Princess Tutu was nothing but a few meager lines in a story no-one cared about any more. Mytho would never change, and neither would she. She had to believe that.

x-x-x

If Rue was Giselle and Mytho was Albrecht (her prince, her lover), then Fakir had to be Hilarion. She had to admit that the role suited his style of dance very much; it was powerful, passionate, and dynamic, and she could concede that those were Fakir's strong points. He could never be anyone's prince of course, but he would do as the gamekeeper.

On her part, it was always strangely hilarious and repulsive when they had to practice together, and his character had to declare love for hers. How humiliating it must be for him, she often thought, biting back a smile. Later on in their practice, she'd try not to enjoy rejecting him too much as she pulled herself out of his tight grip (always just that little bit too rough and forceful, just for her) and rushed back to Mytho. After all, she didn't want to be caught breaking out of her role again, or risk losing her already-tenuous grip on Giselle's character. She was kind and tender, and wasn't supposed to want to hurt Hilarion.

She had to remember such things and always keep her focus, because she was meant to be Giselle, and eventually she would be, with more practice. She had to be, and had to master this role. She was Rue, the Academy's prima ballerina, and the Prince's only prima donna.

x-x-x

"Be the peasant maiden; cheerful, trusting and charming," Mr. Cat said, full of reverence for the ballet and lost in his own words, forgetting everyone and everything else in the room. "You are an innocent: sweet, simple, and carefree. You are in love for the first and only time, so very much in love, and you truly believe this handsome young man will take your hand in marriage –"

And she tried, she'd been trying all day. She tried to be the sheltered girl waking up to life and love, but nothing was working. Her dance was supposed to be as natural as breathing, but she could only gasp for air. Even as she tried to be light and merry, and worked to smile and blush as she filled her movements with sparkling innocence, naïve happiness, and the promise of a joyful future, every technical mistake and emotional slip rattled her badly. It was her own fault for letting those minor faults shake her too badly and ruin her poise and control for the rest of the solo, but she was sick of failure, of not getting it when it should've been so much easier, and of not living up to her own expectations when she knew she could do better. But again and again, Giselle eluded her. The happy girl in love never stayed in her dance very long.

Breathing deeply and carefully, Rue got up and began her solo again. She tried to be in love, stupidly in love just like Giselle, but simply couldn't love that way.

Softly, she closed her eyes and suddenly thought of a day in spring, a long time ago. She was outside somewhere with Mytho – her Prince – and he was holding both her hands in his as she rose up en pointe for the very first time on tiny, clumsy, shaking legs. Her hands were small and white, she remembered, and his were so much bigger and stronger, and so elegant, and even though his face was lost and his eyes were vacant, his hands held hers so carefully. This was what it meant to dance. Her small hands were folded gently and securely in his own, like two fragile baby birds in need of protection, and his grip was so soft and sure that she knew she wouldn't ever fall. She was wobbling and nervous and struggling to hold her balance, but nothing could make her want to stop, not for all the world. And then she was dancing with him, dancing in the sunshine and falling petals, looking up at her Prince and smiling brightly, love and pure adoration welling up inside her, and feeling so free and happy it almost hurt –

No, that couldn't be right. She couldn't hold on to it, couldn't properly place the memory, and all in a moment it was gone as if it had never been. It passed away like a spring breeze, and Rue was left alone again, frustrated as ever, and trembling hard as she struggled to hold her pose.

x-x-x

It was so much better when she practiced Giselle and Albrecht's pas-de-deux with Mytho, because being with him never failed to bring her happiness, even on the worst days. With him, she could fly again. She could feel warm and calm again, even if it was only while dancing, and at last she could hang on to the feelings that always seemed to slip away from her whenever she danced Giselle alone. When she was alone, ballet was all about tight control and precision and fighting hard to maintain them, but when she was with him, she was free and flowing again.

This was why she loved to dance, because it brought her joy and contentment, it brought her closer to him, and she could express everything in moments such as this. She was Rue again, the way she was meant to be, but she could be anyone when she danced with him, so long as that person was Mytho's partner.

Of course, he couldn't connect to his character's emotions or understand his motivations at all, but it didn't matter – if he didn't have a heart or any feelings, then he'd never have to be at war with his part, the way she was. It was fine, he was fine, and he didn't need to be any other way.

She loved this, loved reaching out for him and always feeling him there, and only hers. Dance was their common tongue. They knew each other's bodies so well now – it might not mean anything to him, but he knew where she was strong and where she was supple. She'd learned the exact perfect moment to tighten her legs during their lifts, and he intuitively understood when she needed support and when she was ready to balance alone. Her hand was made to hold his. It was such harmony – never boring, never predictable, but always constant and flowing like music. And he liked to dance. In spite of everything, he still couldn't stop, and so she would be his dance.

But then, midway through, she looked at Mytho, looked into his eyes that were once so dim and peaceful, and he was different somehow. Rue could plainly see distraction, thought, and faint, troubled emotion, and her heart clenched in fear and denial. It wasn't real, she tried to convince herself. It wasn't there at all and didn't mean anything, but all she could think about afterwards were deceptions, betrayals and Giselle's doomed love.

x-x-x

After a night of troubled dreams, Giselle's mad dance came far easier to her. Normally, Rue hated the choreography, and in having to cling to Mytho like a child and dance with a madness that was more weak confusion than anything else, before finally dropping dead at his feet. If she was really Giselle, then she would have fought for her Albrecht.

But today, she was the closest she'd ever been to unlocking the role. It was the dance of insanity, of betrayal, and of a broken heart, and she couldn't stop herself from putting as much intensity and desperation into it as possible. She wanted everyone to feel her anguish and devastation – her Giselle wouldn't be limp and pathetic, dancing like a broken doll, but feverish and charged with fatal energy, her suffering burning her out from the inside. The dance was supposed to be painfully clumsy in places, and deliberately laced with faltering steps, and so a mistake wouldn't have been so difficult to cover, but this time she danced it perfectly. She didn't want to stop, not even when she plunged Albrecht's sword into her chest, pierced her own heart and died in her beloved's arms, because he couldn't be hers.

This love was battered and broken, and she danced it so well.

x-x-x

Giselle's final and most memorable incarnation was as a ghost, in the ballet's second Act. She rose from her grave, bound to the earth by her suicide and broken heart, and was welcomed into the ranks of the Wilis, and doomed to dance innocent men to their deaths in an endless revenge for the wrongs done to her and her ghostly sisters. At first, Giselle was supposed to accept her fate, but once she realized their cruel and merciless nature, she would defy them. To protect Albrecht from death at their hands, she would even refuse the orders of Myrtha, cold and pitiless queen of Wilis, and sacrifice all her strength in order to keep her prince safe until dawn.

This was the part of the story Rue liked best. Here was Giselle's moment to really fight for what was important to her, and so she practiced and practiced, wanting to put her all into the role. She had to focus more than ever during this Act, not only because of the demanding techniques and balances required, but because her performance here was absolutely crucial to the story. She had to embody goodness, noble humanity, and pure love, and she needed to be brave, heroic and utterly unselfish in order to play Giselle perfectly, and save the man she loved.

Rue danced, and her dance was fine and graceful, but as always, she felt herself wearing out far too soon, and falling bitterly short of all the dramatic qualities she wanted so badly to achieve.

x-x-x

It had been a long time since she'd been forced to remember what it was like to fall, and to fail. It had been so long since those days in the Beginners' Class – those days when she wasn't the best.

Rue could remember plenty of falls in her past, and how hard it was to taste inadequacy and pain. Dancing ballet was always painful, but there was so much beauty and triumph in it too. Pain was only a part of it. But in the moments when she faltered and stumbled, the illusion was completely shattered, and she loathed herself for it. People were supposed to watch her dance and feel transported, not worried and anxious over whether she might slip-up again.

Mytho never made mistakes like hers, never. His perfection was undiminished, in spite of everything he'd endured, and she wanted so much to one day match him and equal him, to be as like him as possible, and prove beyond all doubt that he'd found his partner and princess in her. Any moments that reminded her that this hadn't happened yet had an especially acidic bite.

But she could still remember – she could remember the first time she ever made a mistake with him and fell, and through all her anger, shame and bruised pride, how sweet it felt to be caught by her Prince. How warm it felt there.

She was very small, in that strange and distant memory; small and young. And like a dream, it seemed Mytho hadn't changed at all. And it was very much like a dream or fantasy, because that day, when she first fell, she'd discovered something extraordinary. She'd learned that she was allowed to make mistakes sometimes, if she was with him. He would never be disappointed in her, or get angry at her. No matter or what she did wrong, he would always catch her and pick her up, and they would simply begin their dance again. With him, she never had to cringe and cower in desperate apology, and never had to beg forgiveness.

A terrifying chill froze her smile, draining all warmth from her features. Where did that fear come from?

And when was that first day, when she danced with Mytho and fell? How did she first meet him, anyway?

It was gone again, suddenly blurred and blocked. The beautiful day and the sweet devotion blooming in her heart were all lost, carried away in a fury of forgetfulness, and she wasn't sure whether what she felt was regret or relief.

She glanced upwards and saw a crow perched on the town wall, watching her.

x-x-x

She was in the studio again, going over the basics. She resented having to do it; for as long as she could remember she'd always been in such a rush to learn everything, to push herself, to go as far as she could, and to master the most difficult moves as quickly as possible. Perhaps her lack of stamina was all her own fault, because she'd been neglectful of her basic training. But it that was the reason she was still struggling to learn Giselle, then it was something in her power to fix.

However, she wasn't alone in her training today. Duck was there – the girl she'd danced with against Anteaterina not long ago. Maybe she'd been made to stay behind as part of the new Probationary Class. Poor girl.

For now, they were both practicing at the barre together, repeating the same warm-up exercises, and Rue found herself being gradually drawn into a conversation against her will.

"I can't afford to waste time chatting," she sniffed. "I need to get this right."

"Really?" the younger girl asked, almost amazed. "It's just that me and Piqué and Lillié – they're my friends – well, we like to come in to watch you and the Special Class practice a lot, and you always look really great, no matter what you're doing, and especially when you dance with Mytho. I mean, I'm sure you do need to practice very hard to be that good and I should probably be quiet now like you asked, but I just wanted to say...um, just that you don't need to worry."

Rue didn't know why, but she was surprised and warmed, and found herself smiling slightly, unsure of what she was supposed to say next. "...Thank you."

"It's okay!" Duck laughed, blushing. "And I'm sure your Giselle's going to be really beautiful!"

"I don't want her to be beautiful," she said, her mood suddenly darkening. "My Giselle has to be torn."

"Giselle is supposed to be torn? Like when Albrecht and Hilarion fight over her?"

"No, not really," Rue sighed in exasperation, launching into explanation without even realizing it. "It's not some nonsense like a love triangle that causes her to be so conflicted. It's about Giselle's soul. She has a choice. Myrtha and the Wilis embody cruelty, hate and revenge, and they're trying to tempt her into joining them. If Giselle's feelings of anger and pain are stronger than her love, then Myrtha wins. Being in love made Giselle suffer, and she could easily choose to make Albrecht pay for betraying and hurting her, or to stay true to her love."

She'd drifted a little, and realized she was talking more to herself than to Duck, thinking sombre thoughts out loud, and even staring at her own reflection in the studio mirror.

But still, Duck seemed to be listening in happy fascination, and it was actually oddly nice to talk with her. It was a little annoying to be asked so many pointless questions, but it wasn't as bad an experience as she'd expected. Instead, it felt like the first time she'd ever talked with anybody, and actually helped her to feel calm and normal again for a moment. Already, some of the dread and tension that had been hounding her lately began to shrink and peel off.

"So it's really two different ways of loving that causes Giselle to feel torn?" Duck asked.

"You could put it like that."

"And even though she's a spirit, her heart's still human, isn't it?"

Her heard jerked up a little at Duck's words, so smilingly spoken. She'd tried so hard to convey Giselle's deep love, and yet honestly had never thought of it that way.

"Yes," Rue answered, very quietly.

Duck smiled again, sunny and sincere. "Well, you really seem like you know her character. I can't wait to see you dance!"

x-x-x

"Mytho," she said, lifting her head from his shoulders and meeting his gaze. "Dance with me."

"Alright," he answered flatly, and took her hand.

They were outside again, hidden in their secluded glade. They were alone and far away from the ballet studio, and with only a soft and uneven lawn under their feet, but it didn't matter. Dancing with Mytho was the most natural thing in the world; she could do it anywhere and be happy. She could practically do this with her eyes shut, but she always wanted to see him. The scent of flowers was on the air, the shade of the trees was cool and calming, and the silence was serene as they began their dance, falling so easily into an exquisite pas-de-deux.

Her school-shoes weren't suited for dancing at all, let alone en pointe, but Rue didn't care. She would still dance. She was feeling needy and reckless, and couldn't be worried about small, insignificant things like the uneven terrain or the growing pain in her ankles – if Mytho really was regaining his heart somehow, then her ankles were the least of her worries.

She had been running from it, but there was a change in him, in the eyes she knew so well. She was so used to seeing nothing but blithe acceptance in his gaze, but now she could see traces of thought and feeling. He looked troubled and confused, as if he would frown if he knew how, even though he was dancing with her.

And with that thought, her ankle gave way. It was like an invisible hand cutting her strings.

She fell with a sharp cry, but Mytho moved so quickly, and caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. Her breath hitched as she looked up at him in shock, but the burning pain in her ankle soon drove away all other thoughts. Carefully, he lowered her down onto the grass and watched blankly as she waved him off and took charge of herself.

The pain had stunned her, but only for a moment. Wincing, she took off her shoe and sock and rubbed at the injury, irritably massaging where the pain was, hoping it would listen to her and go away. It did little good, but the cool touch of the air and grass on her skin helped a bit. In spite of the pain, Rue realized she wasn't hurt too badly, but it would leave an ache for a while. How pathetic she was. She was still shaking a little from the pain and shock, but she grit her teeth and tried to put her mind above the physical discomfort. She had to get up. It didn't matter that her right leg was unstable, and that she was trembling and sweating with the effort. She had to carry on. It was a ballerina's responsibility to deal with any mishaps.

"Rue..." Mytho was still very close to her, and still watching intently, but his voice was empty, almost an echo.

"It's fine," she said, shaking her head in annoyance. "I'm fine."

She tried to stand up, leaning heavily on him for support, but the instant she put weight on her right leg, she crumpled down again, hissing with the hurt. She was mortified, and her ankle swelled and burned. The irritation and humiliation she felt burned deeper, though – she'd been stupid and careless, and she deserved this. The pain scorched and eyes stung, but she resisted tears and fought them off. She felt so foolish, but at least she could refuse to appear any weaker.

Mytho then knelt down beside her, and she was about to snap at him to leave her, but something so quiet and certain in his face drowned out all her protests. His arms moved around her, and he began to lift her off the ground.

"Mytho?" she cried out, full of prim outrage. "What are you doing? Stop it and put me down!"

He didn't obey and didn't say a word in answer, but instead smoothly and carefully raised her to the level of his chest, getting to his feet as he did so, his arms and hands taking her weight at her thighs and shoulders. Silently and gracefully, he walked towards the woods carrying her, and even though he'd lifted her countless times while dancing, Rue was shocked by his strength. Sometimes it was so easy to forget. It was almost unreal, feeling the tight strength of his arms and back outside the context of ballet, and she soon fell silent and still, and wound her arms around his shoulders and held fast.

Normally, she might have objected more and resented having to be carried like a helpless child. After all, she disliked surprises and disliked Mytho ever doing things without her asking or telling first, or behaving like he had a mind of his own, but this was...nice. At last, she gave into the impulse to lean into his chest and shut her eyes.

Just as she was about to raise her voice and ask where they were going, she heard the soft trickling of a nearby stream. She lifted her head from the warmth of his chest and looked around – they were somewhere remote in the woods, somewhere she didn't recognize, and she wondered how Mytho knew this place, or when he had found it. It was very lovely.

When he reached the stream, Mytho gently lowered her on its bank. His face was still empty, except for that small frown of feeling. How strange it was, she thought. Mytho couldn't feel any pain in his own body, or any compassion in his broken and scattered heart, yet he seemed so sensitive to any suffering he saw in others.

"Here," he said, taking her bare foot in his hand and gently placing it under the running water. He kept his hand submerged with it, tenderly holding it in place.

The cool flowing water was an instant, refreshing balm. Dropping her gaze to her submerged foot, Rue began to experimentally flex it, moving it in very slow and careful circles. Soon, the pain floated away easily, and she almost laughed with relief and pleasure.

Then she happened to turn and look at Mytho, and saw how he was still staring at her injured foot, and her heart fell. Of course, she thought with a sigh. She knew why he'd done this. He'd go this far for anything that needed him. They were so very close in this moment, and a part of her loved the proximity, but she could've been anything or anyone and it would have made no difference whatsoever to him. He would have done exactly the same thing for anybody, and it meant everything and nothing all at once.

"It still hurts?" he asked, lifting his gaze from her foot and meeting her eyes. This close, she could kiss him if she wanted.

"No," she answered, giving a smile she didn't feel. Her voice was soft and her eyes were bleak.

She wanted so much to lean her head against him again, to squeeze her eyes shut and stay there forever, pretending that the reason he was doing this was because it mattered to him that she was injured – really mattered, because she was hurt, and because she was Rue, his Rue, his princess, and because he cared about her.

It was a beautiful thought, but it was a lie.

x-x-x

Eyes shut and head bowed, she leaned forward and crossed her arms in front of her chest, keeping the line running from the back of her head down to her neck and shoulders as straight and smooth as possible, completing the chaste and unearthly look. But it never lasted. As always, she wasn't ethereal enough. When the other dancers approached to take Mytho – Albrecht – from her, she would raise her head far too sharply, eyes full of dark and dangerous threats to stay away from him. She was supposed to be full of light and forgiveness, but her heart took the role to a place dark and new, and wanted to take Mytho with her.

She was supposed to float like mist, to express her love through gentle mimes and serene grief, but no matter how she started off, eventually her arms would express too much aggression, and her movements would grow too strong and too possessive to fit Giselle. She was supposed to defend rather than fight, but there was no other way for her to dance or to love.

You can't have him, her dance said. He's mine.

How foolish, she thought later. It was almost as if she was playing Myrtha, not Giselle.

x-x-x

Freya wasn't a member of the special class.

She clearly loved ballet a lot, and was very gifted, but Rue could see she lacked total dedication. Not that she knew the other girl all that well, but she saw her from time to time in various classes, and sometimes wondered why she didn't seem to mind not being in the special class yet, even when she obviously had the ability and potential to make it, and be something more.

Maybe it was because she didn't just love ballet, but loved other things too. Perhaps she loved too many other things. And yet she danced with such seamless grace and inner-peace. Rue couldn't understand it, or what was missing from herself and her own expressive style, and she especially didn't understand how it was possible for other people to not be as singular as her in their devotions. How it was possible to feel a love that didn't consume.

Freya wasn't special. Except she was.

Rue could see it plainly, and hated to envy her for it, but couldn't stop herself. Freya was pretty and warm, and thoughtful of others. Instead of consuming, her affections nourished others. She had a beautiful heart, the heart of a fairytale princess. And she could dance Giselle perfectly.

x-x-x

She was sitting on a bench in the Academy garden, clutching a sprig of rosemary in her hand. She'd only meant to get some to use in her practice, but now she couldn't keep from losing herself in thought, and as she looked down at the flowering herb, it felt as if her chest was an iron cage, and her heart a tiny bird fluttering wildly and frantically inside it. In her hand, she was holding a symbol of memory, and it terrified her.

The thing that disturbed her most was that she couldn't understand herself, or her irrational and ridiculous emotions. What she did or didn't remember or understand made no difference in the end – not to her, not to her feelings. Quietly, stiffly, she was fighting with herself and trying to deny that anything was wrong. It was just a regular plant, nothing more. But even as she repeated the words and tried to drum them into her consciousness, she felt a chill inside her. It was like a great and terrible shadow passing over her from somewhere far away, but not far enough, and she suddenly wished Mytho was with her.

To distract herself, she thought again about the ballet. Giselle was supposed to offer a rosemary to Albrecht, in remembrance of their mortal love and to show the love she still held for him even in death, but Rue couldn't think about Giselle any more, or of her role. Instead, she was thinking about Myrtha.

Myrtha, the menacing and powerful queen of the Wilis. Myrtha, who forced Hilarion to dance to his death. Myrtha, who was without compassion or remorse, but was strong and unstoppable as a force of nature. She held a rosemary too, just like Giselle, only she brandished it as a weapon. Memory was her weapon. In Myrtha's icy hands, the rosemary meant the remembrance of betrayal and suffering, and the ecstasy of revenge, and no-one could escape her.

Rue sat and stared hard at the very same plant in her hands, vainly willing the rosemary to give an answer to a question she didn't know how to ask. Suddenly, a cawing black shape lunged past her face, horribly and unnaturally close, and ripped the plant from her hands in the space of a second, scratching her skin as it made off with the ruined rosemary. She shot to her feet, breathing hard from sudden fright and paralyzed with sheer shock and disbelief. Horror and disgust shuddered through her, and the scent of its feathers was still in her nose. There was more than a little outrage in her, but it quickly shrank into small and cold fear when she realized what exactly she was looking at – and what was looking back.

Facing her from a tree-branch, was a large black crow. It was only a few feet away, absolutely still and silent, and looking directly at her. Not just at her, but into her, past her pale skin, her black hair, her red eyes, past the bars of her ribcage and all her ugly feelings, until it was glaring at her tiny birdlike heart. She suddenly thought it might fly for her again, that it had meant to attack her before, but it simply gazed at her, hunched and contemplative as it watched her with beady, almost scornful eyes. Blood-red eyes. Hungry eyes.

Her rosemary was still in its claws, half-shredded.

For a moment, she wanted to take up a stone and throw it at the horrible thing and frighten it off, maybe knock it out of its tree. But when its eyes met hers, she couldn't. She couldn't even lift her arm, let alone lob a stone. She didn't dare.

x-x-x

"You're not getting Giselle," Fakir said to her, irritated as usual.

It was rare for him to start any kind of unnecessary conversation with her, though she didn't doubt he was getting some grim satisfaction in seeing her struggle so much. He was never pleasant and always a pest, but even this wasn't like him. He was out of sorts today, she could tell.

It was probably because he hated having to practice fighting Mytho over her, even if it was all just an act. Or perhaps he was sick of being Hilarion, the sacrificial lamb, and of having to rehearse his miserable and meaningless death scene. Maybe it rattled Fakir to play a character who didn't get to die a noble or heroic death, not even a tragic death, but a death that was utterly useless. It was a bad fate, she thought with a smirk, and perhaps she wasn't the only one whose role was starting to get to her.

Or maybe it was because he was noticing Mytho's changes too, and it disturbed him just as much as it did her. The thought made her grow cold, and she felt the previous night's bad dreams come back to her.

"Oh?" she answered, with an air of unconcern. "And how is it any of your business?"

He didn't care enough to respond. He only glared in silent challenge, and she despised him.

"It doesn't matter," she said, and her expression grew hard and angry. "I will get her."

He turned his back to her and began walking away. "Maybe you should play Myrtha instead," he said over his shoulder. "She suits you."

"With you as my Hilarion?" she called after him, giving him a cruel laugh.

It fitted so beautifully, because now that she really thought about it, Hilarion was made for him. He was sly, foolish, jealous, hotheaded, weak and pitiful. He was the story's ultimate loser, doomed to die for no purpose at all.

He stopped in his tracks at that, frozen by her words. He turned around to face her and she smiled, eyes flashing, as she mimed a mocking invitation to dance.

"Maybe she does suit me."

x-x-x

The harder she tried to master the role, the more angry, desperate and laboured her performance became. Her arms and legs just wouldn't listen to her anymore, and the more she struggled and grappled, the worse it got, and her unease became more apparent than ever. Her sleep was being disturbed by bad dreams, and so she went into practice every day already tired and irritable, and left it even more so and even further from a perfect Giselle. She would go to her bed exhausted at the end of the day, but afraid of sleep, and what she might find there.

Perhaps Myrtha was a better role for her after all. It was less demanding, for one thing.

No, she berated herself. There was no use in thinking like that, because she'd known in the moment when she first began to struggle that she'd never give up, no matter how much she had to work. Most importantly, being Myrtha would mean giving up dancing with Mytho for this production, and so she wouldn't ever waver from her chosen course. Being Myrtha would mean so many things, and she couldn't let it happen. She would get what she wanted, and she would dance Giselle, and dance her brilliantly.

She was Rue, and she danced with Mytho – and only Mytho.

x-x-x

"He loves me, he loves me not..." she chanted, methodically plucking a daisy's petals, one by one.

Historically, Giselle was one of the first productions to popularize the tradition of picking flower petals to test a partner's love. Rue had smiled as she worked the detail into her latest essay, using it to give her work a little extra flourish. Maybe she wasn't ready to dance as Giselle yet, she had thought at the time, but she could still earn top marks in her academic classes.

The next day, after handing in that essay and walking arm-in-arm with Mytho around the campus after class, she'd stopped abruptly when she noticed a patch of daises in the grass, and couldn't resist the impulse to try it for herself. It was stupid and childish, she knew, and it had no bearing on anything, and Mytho was right to stare at her in total incomprehension. But if it was just a silly little game, then what harm could it possibly do?

"He loves me not..."

Almost immediately, she gave up her chanting and set to work in silent concentration. She wasn't sweet and happy as she indulged what was supposed to be just an innocent and girlish fancy, but instead grew grave and solemn as she snapped each petal off. She looked around, trying to make certain that no red-eyed birds were watching her. Then, when she reached the last petal, her face darkened further.

He loves me.

She turned to Mytho and beckoned him near. Without thought or question, he obeyed.

"Look," she said with a wry, self-satisfied smile, showing him the plucked and bald daisy. "It ended on 'he loves me'. I didn't actually think that it would, you know."

"Oh," was all he had to say.

"Mytho," she took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes searchingly. "Tell me you love me."

"I..." He didn't look away from her, but looked into her deeper than ever, deeper even than that crow had seemed to. He was lost in her request, and looking for an answer somewhere in her face, but he failed to find it. His voice, when he spoke at last, sounded almost defeated.

"I love you, Rue."

It was a lifeless and mechanical answer, from a lifeless and mechanical doll of a prince. Rue knew well that it was so much better than nothing, but her breath turned to ice and her hands dropped from his as she tried to hide the sudden misery that had come upon her and the fear clenching inside her. Suddenly and fiercely, she almost wished a crow would appear and snatch the daisy from her hands, just like the rosemary. She gripped the tiny flower tightly in her fist, feeling it grind to bits between her trembling fingers, and she suddenly hated the wretched thing and how it mocked her.

"Never forget it," she said, and even Mytho could hear the snarl under the curling softness of her voice. "It's all you ever need to know."

It was all ridiculous anyway. She knew Mytho couldn't ever really love her, she'd known it for as long as she could remember, and it had never mattered or made a difference to her feelings for him. He could be too cold and she would be too hot, and they would still fit together perfectly. She could love enough for both of them, and that was the way it was always meant to be.

But he never used to hesitate before.

x-x-x

That night, she dreamed of dancing as Myrtha. She dreamed of being icy, pitiless and victorious. She was regal and commanding as the night, cold and hard as a tombstone, and as strong and terrible as a winter storm. Yes, she would take what she wanted. What she needed.

She dreamed of hating and hurting, and visiting a spurned, broken-hearted rage on every man who had the misfortune of meeting her. All her tears were frozen, and she would smile wickedly and show no mercy as she tore Albrecht from Giselle and danced with him until they reached the Underworld together – and there, she would keep him forever.

It was a nightmare, but it felt almost like a dream.

x-x-x

"I'm Giselle."

Rue was sitting at her mirror, after a night of red eyes and blood. She stared at herself in the morning light as if she were a stranger, and spoke to her reflection in an even and level tone, demanding obedience. Her eyes had no confidence or certainty in them, but she would force it. She would sit, and as she brushed her hair and tried to hide the gray bags under her eyes, she would make herself believe in her role. She was the heroine, the beautiful and beloved heroine.

But gazing at her own reflection, Rue could only think of an old fairy tale full of blood and poison. It was a story which began with magic mirror, and a great and evil queen who searched desperately for confirmation of her beauty within its depths. The story would begin to move on the fatal day when the dark queen looked into her mirror and was told the very last thing she wanted to hear: the truth.

"I want to be Giselle. I will be Giselle."

Myrtha, her mirror whispered back.

x-x-x

"The story will become real," the strange woman said. "In this town where reality and stories intermingle..."

It had been a bizarre day, and somehow she'd ended up alone with Duck yet again, and stuck in more awkward and pointless conversations with her, even though she really should have been busy blaming the younger girl for shattering her concentration during practice earlier in the day. But since then, and in spite of all her pride and mixed feelings, she'd felt more human, more real, more herself, with the setting sun on her back and Duck walking beside her and chattering happily as if everything was perfectly normal. For once, all thoughts of ballet and frustration were far away.

But soon enough, the hours continued to turn and the warm evening became a foggy and forbidding night. The dead toll of the town's bell-tower chilled her, and they still hadn't found Mytho. Even in his usual wanderings, he never strayed so far or so late, not when he knew she and Fakir were waiting for him, and in spite of her attempts to sound unconcerned and in-control, Rue was beginning to worry. On top of it all, she'd had to put up with all kinds of nonsense through almost the entire day – first Duck insisting on finding Mytho for no other reason than because he apparently looked stranger than usual, then Duck's bigger insistence on striking up silly small-talk with her during their search, and then her even bigger insistence that they were both friends now. And from the way Duck spoke to her, anyone listening could almost believe that they'd been friends for years. It was so odd, and the girl herself was so weird and peculiar, but Rue had no desire to leave yet.

But now that night had fallen, after having accepted the way things stood with Duck, she was expected to swallow even more ridiculous talk about suicide, ghost maidens, stories coming to life, and Mytho being in danger. Rue had no idea why she was even listening, why she hadn't angrily given up and turned back to her dorm for some rest. She was a fool for staying and for putting up with such a stupid game, when she clearly knew better. Was it some joke? Were Duck and this woman trying to trick her, trying to make a fool of her?

But something about the strange woman, whose eyes and face never moved, compelled her to stay and listen, and her words filled Rue with foreboding. Her imagination started to awaken, and she immediately recognized the story the woman was referencing, about a forbidden love and a young maiden who became a wandering ghost after taking her own life, and fear began to creep through her.

"It's starting," the woman spoke in a breathless sigh, as if it was fated, and pointed an elegant arm towards a mansion Rue had never seen before. It could have appeared from nowhere, and she almost believed it must have. Looking again at the strange messenger and the curve of her arm, Rue suddenly thought of hanging trees and the curved branch she had once seen a crow perch on, as its red gaze tore into her body.

And Rue could feel it now, she could feel the gears of an ancient story creaking and moving again, oiled with blood and powered by something dark and unknown. And Mytho was a part of it now, somehow trapped inside it. It made no rational sense at all, she couldn't explain or understand it, but she knew it, and followed Duck without hesitation or argument. She didn't care anymore if it was all nonsense – all she knew was that she wouldn't let anything threaten Mytho, or take him away from her.

The two girls ran together, disappearing into the night fog.

x-x-x

Rue saw the rosemary of Giselle, and the moment she recognized it and what it meant, she knew what to do. Mytho's danger transformed her, and everything haughty, complaining and petty vanished from her in an instant as desperate fear filled her body. She wouldn't let any harm come to him, not while there was still breath and strength left in her body. It didn't matter who she was or who she was meant to be, all that mattered was keeping Mytho safe, and with her. She would dance until she died, if that was the cost. She would fight, and she would save him at last.

But even her frantic terror couldn't match the ghost, and as the sweat began to pour and her muscles started to cramp, she knew it. She wouldn't last until dawn. She wouldn't last at all. She was dancing without toe-shoes again, just like that day, that beautiful faraway day when he carried her to the stream, and her ankle was raw and burning with the strain. But she didn't care, didn't care for the pain or how hard it was to breathe, because she couldn't lose him. She would suffer, she was willing to suffer, and so she kept pushing, kept moving, kept dancing, because it was all she could do to protect her Prince. But as her stamina wore down, her body lost its agility and her legs lost their strength – and she was betrayed, because her body was so weak, too weak to help him, too weak to fight for him. She couldn't fail, she couldn't, but she was. She already had, and she was terrified. She wasn't strong enough, she wasn't good enough – she wasn't enough.

At the very last moment before she lost her balance, she understood the reason for it all. She could never win because their roles were confused. The ghost-bride was playing Myrtha's part, dancing an innocent man to death and stealing his soul away, but beneath her actions, her soul was Giselle's – a woman laden with sorrow, who had loved so much that she had taken her own life.

And Rue danced Giselle, the heroine and saviour, and wanted so much to protect her beloved Prince, but underneath everything she was Myrtha. She could see it now – she'd always been Myrtha and couldn't escape it any more. She was Myrtha dancing Giselle's part, and dancing it with all the right motivations but all the wrong emotions. She was doomed, and could never be the heroine.

She was Giselle, she was Myrtha, and as she fell, she knew what it was like to be Hilarion too, and how it felt to fail and suffer, to be helpless, afraid and weak, and to lose the one she loved.

x-x-x

At the very last moment, when everything seemed lost, something incredible happened. Princess Tutu appeared, and Rue knew it at once, even as her eyes widened in shock. It couldn't be, and yet it was. The world spun like a dream. Here was a princess who was Odette, La Sylphide, and the Lilac Fairy all rolled into a single bright form, filled with beauty and heroism without suffering. This was a true princess and storybook heroine, radiant with hope, charm and grace. Her face was rosy and sweet, and her limbs were filled with merry music.

Rue watched from the sidelines, hopelessly transfixed as the gentle fairytale princess matched the ghost-bride's dance with supernatural perfection and smiling light, and couldn't deny the awe or the stab of envy she felt as she looked on. Like a perfect wind-up doll, the swan princess never tired, and her smile never faltered. Princess Tutu shone and glowed, and effortlessly saved the Prince's life, healed the ghost of her sorrow, and retrieved a wandering heart-shard. With only a few softly-spoken words, she then restored it, and Mytho couldn't take his tear-filled eyes from her. He couldn't seem to help it, and his fascination was heartbreaking in its softness and innocence, and its sheer openness, and it strangled Rue's insides to have to look at him. He'd watched her own passionate and desperate dance for his life with confused indifference, but Tutu's fairy-dance had woken something in him, and called to him in a way she never had, and never could.

Princess Tutu was as clear and true as a magical mirror, and in a single devastating moment, she reflected everything that Rue wasn't.

x-x-x

And in a breath, Princess Tutu was gone, leaving as swiftly and daintily as she'd arrived, and Mytho and Rue were left staring at each other and dealing with the aftermath. She was still on her scraped knees, shocked and speechless, and then astonished as the midnight illusion faded and reality reasserted itself, and the ruined mansion was transformed back into an abandoned playground. Already, it seemed like it had all been something out of a dream, and her head whirled with everything she'd seen – things that couldn't possibly be real, but could never be forgotten.

She'd been proved wrong in so many ways tonight, and a failure, and she couldn't even think of approaching Mytho yet – not while his soul was clearly filled with thoughts of the mysterious princess. Instead, Rue shakily picked herself up from the dirty ground, her palms and shins still scorching badly from the fall, her ankle still raw and unsteady. She looked around for Duck for a few moments, but the younger girl was nowhere to be found. The last she'd seen of her, she'd been running into the woods, probably frightened by the ghosts. Rue sighed, hoping she was okay.

A part of her flared already with loathing for everything that had happened – for having lost, for having been defeated by Giselle and then upstaged by Tutu. Like a clumsy novice trying to step into the role of the prima ballerina, she had fallen flat on her face. And for all her supposed skill, she couldn't protect the one she loved more than her own life. She hadn't defended him from the ghost-maiden, who meant to dance his life away, or from Princess Tutu, who had returned a shard of his heart and thoughtlessly caused him sorrow and suffering. What a miserable joke.

And now, Mytho was crying.

As she neared him, Rue had never been so nervous. What was she supposed to do? She almost feared to draw too close, and to look into his face and see someone she didn't recognize anymore. Grimly, she noticed the withered remains of a rosemary resting on the ground near him, its flowers dead. At least he was safe, she reminded herself. She could be glad of that, if nothing else.

"Mytho," she said hesitantly, trying for gentleness and warmth. "My prince."

He blinked back tears, and it was as if it was the first time all night he'd actually realized she was there, and had been there all along; searching for him, dancing to save him, and finally watching Princess Tutu take her place.

"Rue," he said, simply. "I feel..."

"No, don't," she chided, both soft and unyieldingly harsh at the same time. "It isn't worth it."

He looked at her, and she wanted to smile for him and reassure him somehow, but she couldn't pretend. A dreamlike peace descended over her, perhaps born of exhaustion or confusion, and she touched his wet cheek without word or expression, as gently and tenderly as he'd once touched her bare foot, when he dipped it into the stream. No-one else could care for him this way. It would be her who saw him home safely, not the beautiful white swan. Once, twice, she brushed his tears away, until no more came. If only it could be as easy as that.

She'd never been offered comfort or sympathy, and had no memory of ever receiving it, and so had no clue about how she should act or what she should say. The best she could manage was awkward and halting, but he gave grace to everything.

"It's late," she said, taking his hand. "Come with me. I'll take you back."

Slowly, he began to grip her hand in return. Rue led the way, trying not to show her uncertainty or hint at the pain still lingering in her foot, as they left the town playground together and tried to find the Academy dorms. Tomorrow morning, she decided, she would go to the library, search its books, and revisit the story of a selfless prince, and...and a raven. It had been too long, and there was much she had probably forgotten.

She had always believed herself to be so strong and resolute, but now could feel herself shaking, and for the first time painfully aware of how very weak her foundations were. As the fog cleared and the ghosts faded, it was like watching a sleeping town wake up and shake off all memory of the midnight forces lurking just beneath the surface of everyday existence. And Rue wished she could forget too, deny the fantastical, and just be an ordinary girl in love. But the faint scent of rosemary still tainted the air, and instead of more futile wishing, she watched Mytho's face carefully as they walked together, still holding hands, and knew that going back was impossible. Now that the clockworks of fate were turning, ticking down the hours and minutes of her old happiness, so many things would have to change if she wanted any hope of keeping Mytho's hand in hers.

You don't need this, she silently whispered, staring at his tears. And you don't need your heart. You have me.

She heard a soft chuckle, dry as old bones, as a storyteller's strings pulled them both towards home.

- FIN -