Avalanche
A Princess Tutu fanfic by Klondike Aura
Mytho has a most unusual bookcase.
New stories have to come from somewhere, even in the world of fairy tale. And Mytho's favorites nowadays tend to come from Fakir. Every time the former knight turned writer pens a new tale, a new book or stack of papers would show up on the Prince's bookcase. Countless nights were spent sitting up in bed, his dearest Rue in his arms as they read the stories of Gold Crown or the letters Fakir wrote without knowing how to send. The royal couple shared a secret smile, wondering what Fakir would think if he knew they received each one. It was clear he was none the wiser, and even Mytho and Rue would sometimes hide the more private entries away without reading them completely.
The kingdom was in the throes of midwinter festivals. The streets were lined with lights, the tantalizing scents of succulent feasts and sweets warmed the chill air, and family and friends were gathered in joy and harmony.
It was around this time that the loose papers began to come in, a gentle flurry of parchment.
It started with a few at first. Mytho read with concern as a likely aching hand described unrelenting snow keeping them sequestered. The Prince assured himself that the snow will let up and things will be all right before returning to the festivities.
But as the weeks went on and the snow hadn't stopped, Mytho learned with horror that they were out of food in his former home. He hid those away with Fakir's private papers, as he didn't want to trouble Rue with the talk going on in Charon's house. It was already bad enough to be helpless in the world of story. Worrying his Princess wouldn't do any good.
Then the avalanche of frantic writing came. Instead of the typical books or neat stacks, the papers poured out in disarray from the bookcase. Mytho didn't even know where to begin. The Prince picks up a paper on the outskirts of the pile at random, startled when his nose caught the rusty smell of dried blood in smeared fingerprints on the edge of the page. He can feel his fingers tremble as he takes in the words, written by a shaking hand and blurred here and there by water splotches.
"The Blacksmith saw no other way. The Knight who had put down his sword begged him not to harm the Duck who was once a Princess, but it fell on deaf ears. The Blacksmith brought his heavy cleaver down..."
Mytho could bear no more from that page and it falls from his grasp. He picks up another.
"The Writer who had dropped his quill raised his knife, intent to deliver a mortal strike. If the Blacksmith could not be stopped with reason, then the Writer who is a Knight again will have to save the Duck who is a Princess by force."
The Prince drops to his knees, looking through the papers. They were written differently in some spots and some accounts were more disjointed than others, but they all told the same events. And Mytho knew down to the very core of his being what Fakir was trying to change that couldn't be reversed.
"Mytho?!"
He looks up as Rue rushes to his side, reaching to hold him as his body convulses from sobbing.
"What's wrong?" she asks. "Did something happen to Duck and Fakir?"
Mytho nods against her bosom, unable to speak. He tries to brush some of the papers away, wanting to tell his Princess himself rather than let her read the sordid details. But it's too late. Rue picks a paper up and he hears her gasp and choke as she absorbs what happened, her tears falling and dampening his hair.
They clutch each other so tight that it physically hurts them both, but what they wouldn't give to trade away all of the sorrow rending their insides for that tangible pain instead. The strength in their hold lasts longer than they're able to sustain their crying, eventually quieting from emotional exhaustion and taking in unsteady gasps of air. They slowly rise and make their shaking way to bed, unable to take the waking world for the moment and seeking the relief of slumber.
The kingdom can join in their mourning tomorrow. Tomorrow they can lose themselves in the crash of sympathy and wailing.
Tonight their grief shall be their own.
Author's Notes: I completely intended for Cold to be a oneshot. I like how the story stands on its own and it doesn't really need elaboration. But this companion piece came to mind and apparently I couldn't resist. I think this has enough information that you don't necessarily need to read Cold to understand what's going on, but Cold puts the story in more concrete terms.