The Prince's eyes held many things at this moment in time—sorrow, despair, disappointment. They burned with the fire of a tragic love and the impending, ever-looming feelings of loneliness and self-resentment.
But deepest of all was the feeling of regret, regret that he could not have done more. Regret that, after all this time, after finally regaining every last piece of his heart, he would be forced to become an empty shell again—a doll with no will of his own.
What cut even deeper was the feeling of weakness. A prince was supposed to be strong, but everything he had tried was inadequate. If he had just been stronger—if he had been able to hold off the crow-people just a little while longer—if he had, somehow, been able to charge the Raven straight off, tear into the beast's heart before he had swallowed Rue…
Oh, Rue. Would she forgive him for what he was about to do? Could she? Would she hear the sound of his heart shattering, or would all her senses take leave of her as she was sealed with the Raven, inside the Raven, to dance until there was nothing left?
For her sake, he hoped she wouldn't—though a small part of the Prince knew if she did he would deserve it.
"Here and now, I will pierce this heart once more!"
Drosselmeyer watched with unabashed delight as the Prince prepared to run himself through. This was his crowning achievement as an author, his magnum opus given life: the creation of a never-ending, beautifully tragic story, one to surpass any other. Even the story of Swan Lake would be as nothing compared to this, for some had the gall to give it a happy ending.
This story would have no happy ending. If he were a painter, he would wish to forever capture this impeccable moment of complete despair—but writing it, seeing it through, was better than an image, for in stories the characters lived and breathed as easily as they died.
As Siegfried knelt upon his sword, ran himself cleanly through, the last things he heard before it all faded to darkness were the frantic cries of a duck begging him to stop, which were soon silenced with the wounds inflicted on her. The failed knight ran out into the streets, calling Duck's name, and the Raven's claw cut him in twain, exactly as the story should have gone; Drosselmeyer would allow a delay in the matter as long as it was fulfilled at all. Even the villain didn't get what he wanted, as the Raven was sealed away as soon as the heart shards scattered anew, Rue fading with him into oblivion. Whether she survived or not, well—it didn't matter. There could always be a new Crow Princess, just as there would always be a Knight, a Prince, a Princess Tutu.
The author couldn't think of a more suiting end—but this was only the beginning, the first chapter, even. Duck's passions and sorrows had brought such delight to the tale, such beautiful, inescapable tragedy that Drosselmeyer almost wished he'd finished the story long ago. But it was just as well he hadn't; now it would start again.
She was the perfect flourish to the story, and would serve as inspiration for all other variations of the tale.
In that way, Drosselmeyer supposed, she would live on, and die on, forever.
The first variation is similar to its predecessor, though the author quickly divested himself of that meddling puppet Uzura. Much like Edel, she was too human, much too kind, and her childish impatience and lack of surrender made her dangerous. So a new puppet was created, one that gave advice and encouragement in all the right places but knew better than to become attached.
The Crow Princess and the new Knight were much the same as the last, though the Prince's eyes were, if possible, even more melancholy than before. Tutu was a cygnet, a baby swan, with Drosselmeyer enjoying every possible interpretation of her state of being. Lesser characters—the ballet teacher, the supportive friend, the twisted friend—were awakened from the first version as if they'd merely been asleep, though unlike the outgoing Duck, Cygnet was often lonely, keeping her feelings to herself.
Perhaps it was the lack of connection, of someone to confide in, that made Princess Tutu confess her feelings aloud, turning into a speck of light before the Prince's eyes.
The second variation is tragic in an unexpected way. Tutu, now a cat, falls in love with one of the missing heart shards. Initially forsaking her duty out of devotion—how ironic that she should love the same emotion she feels so strongly—she presses on, intending to save the one she loves for last. As a result the Prince feels pangs of curiosity and deepening regret, more than anything else. His attempts to comfort her ring hollow, she knows she cannot explain it, and when she can bear to see him no longer Drosselmeyer opens the path to the Lake of Despair and waits.
How cruel love is. The fifth time the willi maiden, Giselle, bests Tutu and takes the Prince to the realm of the dead. The Crow Princess and the Knight both blame her; they have no reason to think otherwise, and Tutu has no line of reason to defend herself. Even her vanquishing does not bring the Prince back, and the Crow Princess and the Knight mourn their loss all too briefly. A story without a catalyst is a waste of space, and as enjoyable as a diversion might be, the story cannot be stopped by a mere thing such as death.
The tenth time around all is chaos. The Prince turned into a raven, and remained that way, but his incomplete heart was not enough sustenance for the Raven to revive completely. The great beast lashes out at friend and foe alike, driven to madness, and the tale ends in a shower of feathers, clockwork gears, and blood. To be safe, Drosselmeyer cleans off his suit before the gears spin back.
The twentieth (Thirtieth? He's lost count) variation ends almost as soon as it had begun. Tutu was a ladybug this time around, and when she wasn't retrieving lost heart shards she was flitting about, back and forth, with a greatly reduced lifespan compared to when she was human. When her wings were injured the Prince himself had been her undoing, catching her in a bottle to heal her. The Crow Princess was swift to make it airtight, and so she died; they had never been friends. There had been no time to be friends.
The bookish boy, the would-be author, acts rashly, and his arrogance leads the Knight to his demise. Now a tree, now part of the earth, he's as close to being the story as he ever will come. As Tutu weeps before his form, Drosselmeyer idly wonders what sort of stories would spring from such a tree, should it be ground into paper. He realizes as soon as he thinks it—more copies of this story, of course!
The Crow Princess questions her father once too often and is torn in two in seconds. Bereft of a source of information, Tutu and the Knight can only watch as the Prince sinks further and further into miasma from the tainted love shard. They cannot stop him from sacrificing hearts to feed the Raven, and the beast thanks him for his efforts before he devours him, too.
When the players become too familiar, the outsiders catch Drosselmeyer's interest, and when the outsiders are too well known to be interesting the players surprise him with their inventiveness, their ingenuity.
Once they almost figure out that this has happened before, but the story ends them before they realize it will surely happen again.
The story lets them realize in full, and it's glorious. How many times? How many lives? How many failures before this, the one (none) possible (impossible) chance at a happy end?
His characters defy him, defy fate, with even the Raven beating his wings in fury against the one who wrote this nightmare.
Drosselmeyer is unmoved, and rejoices when it comes, as it always does, to a satisfyingly tragic end.
The gears spin, the pages turn, the story lives and breathes forever in endless cycles.
With story-spinning powers the passage of time is irrelevant, space is meaningless, lives can begin and end and begin again at a word, and the power of the words themselves ensures little, if any, room to grow tired.
Drosselmeyer spends an eternity content in this, his magnum opus, his neverending story.
The greatest tragedy has no finale.