Its Name is Love, a princess tutu fanfic

You are young at the start, only five, maybe six. Too young.

"Mama, I'm hungry," you announce.

"I know sweetheart, but you can't have anything else to eat tonight." The sure steady strokes of the brush through your hair never pause.

"Why Mama? Did I do something wrong?" You don't think you have, but sometimes you forget.

"No, there's just no more food left for tonight." You turn around to ask her to explain, but she gives you a Look, and you turn back toward the fireplace as she resumes brushing your hair. "It wasn't a good year, and there just isn't enough food. Some people have to go without."

You wrinkle your nose at this. "Only some isn't fair Mama," you protest. "It should be everyone or no one."

The brush falters. "I know sweetheart, but sometimes life isn't fair." The silence dominates for a moment. Then you wiggle and the brush resumes its path.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. You aren't sure what she is apologizing for.

Those nights you curl up in a tight ball and shiver as you fall asleep. Harsh winters are colder on an empty stomach.

It is spring before you are full again. You remember that night, when you eat and eat and eat, and Papa just smiles and tells you there's more. Finally you're done and he swings you into a big hug.

"Full up, baby girl?" You nod enthusiastically. "Well I know these past couple months haven't been fair to you-"

"Life isn't fair." You know these words by heart now.

"No, no it's not." Your Papa smiles and you wonder why it looks so sad. "But let this winter be a lesson, even when things get bad, just stick it out and they're sure to turn around."

You agree right then, but that night you think that the past winter has taught you that you never want to be hungry again.

Time passes and you grow. As the years pass you begin to notice them noticing you. The men flock to you, to smile and laugh and flirt. A baron comes too, and he whispers in your ear of wealth and luxury, and you think it a very fine feather in your hat. Only one of them do you notice the way they all notice you. He is strong and kind and handsome and soon he is yours. Together you are happy, and if visions of opulence sometimes dance in your head as you fall asleep, then no one needs to know.

He comes to you on bended knee and offers you an orange stone. He offers you all his love and you promise to be his forever. That was before you learned promises were made to be broken.

Not long after he comes to you, having lost everything. He wants to run away and begs you to come with him. You cry as you turn him away, as you try to return his gift to him.

He smiles through the tears. "Keep it. May my love always be with you." He kisses you and then he is gone, gone, gone.

You are crying again as you go to the baron's estate but your eyes are bone dry by the time you accept his suit.

At first it is grand. The parties and the people, a dizzying lifestyle that sweeps you up into its fun and carefree ways. He showers you with gifts, with praise, with compliments, with adoration. And if you pretend not to notice that your shared smiles never reach his eyes, then he grants you the same favor.

Later it gets worse. He starts with just yelling, but then he's hurting you, he's forcing you and now his smiles, manic grins that they are, reach his eyes, while yours fill with tears.

One night you decide to run. You gather a few things and flee as far and fast as you can. You don't know where you are or where you're going except the voice screaming in your head "Away, away, away!" So you run and run until your shoes fall off, until your feet bleed, until you collapse, until everything goes dark.

When you wake you feel heavy and looking at your furry arm and wonder if it wasn't once something thinner and creamy. You shake the thought off like water, you've always been ugly, outside and inside.

You feel something in the pocket of your cloak and pull it out. The orange stone weights down your arm, like bricks, like lead, like a guilty conscience. You search and search until you find the brightly colored gem peddler.

"Excuse me, won't you please take this?"

"It's quite lovely."

You see his face, full of smiles and hope. "The name of this gem is… love."

"Love?" She searches your face for something, and seems to find it. "I advise you not to let it go. It suits you."

Now you see both their faces, one smiling through tears, the other alight in sadistic glee. "No, I have not right to be holding on to such a thing. Someone like me never did."

You are young at the end, only nineteen, maybe twenty. But you feel old, too old.

A/N: A random little one-shot that resulted from curiosity about a extremely minor character's back-story and a desire to write in second person.

Disclaimer: I do not own Princess Tutu. My wishing star has proven uncooperative on this point thus far.