The Princess and the Rabbit
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting.
This fanfiction was made for fun, not profit.
Epic Mickey is owned by Disney.
Oswald the Lucky Rabbit is owned by Disney and Universal.
Princess Tutu is owned by GANSIS/TUTU and ADV Films
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Chapter 12
Fakir ran down the streets in rage. Every alleyway he passed he would look down and every person he spotted he would question, asking of a purple haired girl and a blond. He would often receive stairs in response. This only strengthened his resolve and he continued his search.
He should have known! He should have known this entire time. Piké and that blond girl had been taken over by the Forgotten King, enslaved by his evil will. No wonder they had been acting strangely. He must have done it when they first missed Duck's performance.
Duck.
His mind went back to his friend as he turned down another street. She must be starving in his room at this very moment, wondering where he is. He stopped as the image flashed across his mind. And then he thought of the... "thing" he had just encountered. Tiny black thing similar to the one he had seen at the lack. Was this one of the king's minions or was it the Forgotten King himself?
"Fakir!"
The dark haired student spun to face the voice, ready for an attack only to see Autor staggering up to him.
"Fakir, Fakir!" he called franticly, stumbling over his feet and landing face down on the cobblestone street. It was times like this that reminded Fakir that, for all his bluster, Autor really was just an awkward nerd.
"Autor, I don't have time for this. I was just..."
"Look!" Autor said, not even waiting for Fakir to stop talking and pointing up at the blue sky. Fakir couldn't help himself and glanced up, eyes widening when he saw it. It was a brilliant white chariot without wheels, which was understandable because it didn't need them while flying. What really caught the eye was that this chariot was being pulled through the noon-day sky by a par of swans, something that should have been impossible. But as Fakir always liked to muse; anything was possible in stories. In the chariot Fakir could see two fingers, one male, one female, and both of them wearing the purest white.
A smile crossed Fakir's face, the first one that day.
"They're early," he said, "good. Then we can start early."
He grimly smiled as he grabbed the still struggling Autor by the collar of his blazer and dragged him back toward the church.
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Duck covered her growling stomach with her wing and looked up at the small clock on the desk. It was already well passed lunch. Fakir said he would feed her, but he hadn't come back yet.
She gave a sorrowful quack as she got off her pillow, waddled over to the window and fluttering up to the sill before she looked out into the courtyard.
Frankly, she couldn't understand why she had to stay cooped up in the musty boy's dormitory room because some animal attacked her this morning. It's not like the thing, whatever it was, would try to make it inside the town wall.
She stomped her webbed feet in anger. She knew he meant well, but sometimes Fakir went a little too far. It was lunch and she should be out eating in one of the pounds. She couldn't eat the bread Fakir liked to feed her forever. That stuff could make ducks fat and as a dancer, she had to watch her weight. He should know that, he bugged her on everything else about being a dancer.
She leaned against the glass with an angry squawk. When Fakir got back, she would give him a piece of her mind. He was supposed to be protecting her, not starving her. Not to mention other needs...
A nasty smile graced her beak. Yeeeeah, how would he like it if he came home to a room covered all over in white splotches? Yeah, that would serve him right. That would... No... She couldn't do that and she knows that. It wasn't right, especially since he let her stay here.
She sat down on the sill with an angry huff. Well, that was that, then? She was just going to wait for Fakir to remember that she was here starving? That boy could be so inconsiderate sometimes.
"Quack..." she murmured as she turned her eyes down... and widened them when she saw that the window was slightly ajar. It wasn't ajar very much, just a crack, but if she could wedge her beak in, she might be able to pry it open.
Though she was excited at the prospect of getting out, she hesitated. Fakir trusted her and told her to stay in the room. Even if she didn't agree with the reasons with which that order had been given, she still had to trust that her friend and confidant knew what he was...
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a loud gurgling growl that erupted from her stomach and reverberated across the tiny room. And it wasn't just the sound that got her attention but a pained rumbling sensation that also issued from the same area, causing her to clutch her tummy the best she could with a par of wings. The rumbling lasted a full minute, a long, agonizing minute, before it settled down and as soon as it did, the little duck was on her feet and franticly peeking at the open space.
She would only be gone for a moment, she decided in between peaking. She would get something to eat and come back.
What could go wrong? It wasn't like there was really something out there trying to get her.
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The old mill sat by one of the many canals that crisscrossed Goldcrown Town. It was a simple little building half covered in vines and it's ever turning water wheel, tinted brightly green with algae, was in constant movement, as it had been for the past many years.
Inside, the mill was empty of life with only the occasional rat interrupting the stillness, escaping from behind the large bags of flour in the corner briefly to sniff the most air.
The large wooden milling mechanism sat in the middle of the large room, grinding away at the grain to make its flour.
This was a peaceful scene that must never be interrupted and yet it was rudely so by the old wooden door opining and closing with a loud slam, two figures rushing in. The taller one wore the female uniform of the local arts academy and had her purple hair tied in a bun, while the smaller one was small, black, had long ears and basically looked like nothing that had ever entered the mill in its long and quit existence.
"We should be safe here," the student said, closing the door and barring it with a wooden plank before carefully peaking out the window, "no one comes to the old mill."
"Then as long as a storm doesn't start up, we'll be fine," the rabbit said hopping on top of a stack of flour sacks, "okay, we're two witnesses on the run from an all powerful spinner, but that's okay. It just so happens that I have a contingency plan for just such an occasion."
Piké turned her attention away from the dust covered window and over to her companion, just in time to see him pull an army helmet out of his pants and plop it on his head.
"First, we dig a tunnel out of town using only toothpicks, then we flee to Austria where we disguise ourselves as yak farmers. When enough time has passed, we raise an army of guitar ninjas and retake the town in a series of raids over a time period of thirty years, thus wearing the opponent out enough to-"
"Uh, do you have anything a little more short term," Piké interrupted, walking up to the rabbit.
"Well, I don't know," he answered back testily, "how do you suggest we fight an opponent that knows our every move."
"'Knows our every move?' wa-" Piké sighed, "What do you mean he's a 'spinner?' I'm sorry, but Fakir does not strike me as the textile type."
"No, no, no," Oswald said, waving his arms, "not sinning wheel. A spinner, you know, as in a spinner of tales; a storyteller," he shifted his potion on his sack, "but this type of storyteller is different."
"Different?"
"Yes, they say they are special; part wizard part story-teller, able to make anything they write come true," he jumped from the flour sack and throw up his arms dramatically, "as long as it would make a good story they could shape your life any way they wish. To them, the world they live in is but untouched clay onto which to mold; and they will write and draw the story they want until it brings grate prosperity... or it all comes crashing down. Until now I thought it was just a rumor."
Piké paused. "That does fit what that boy was saying about Drosselmeyer. And you think Fakir is one, too...?"
"I told you what I saw that night at the lake. He started writing and Duck started dancing in her own little version of 'World of Color.' He has Duck trapped in some twisted story of his. Normal people with that kind of power rarely use it for good."
Piké nodded soberly, her eyes wide. "He did say he 'changed the town,' and..." she looked down to the rabbit, "he said something about a forgotten king?"
Oswald sighed sadly.
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Climbing up the endless flights of steps had always been a chore for Autor. He never did much like exercise and the steps just seemed to go on and on as they ascended higher up the steeple. It was a difficult clime to make when going slowly, but running, like how Fakir was forcing him to do it now, was simply exasperating.
"They're... not going anywhere... you know..." he said in between huffs, "If anything they will come down to us."
Fakir didn't answer. He probably wasn't listening. Typical. He always got this way with any topic that had to do with his precious duck. If he wasn't Drosselmeyer's descendant, Autor wouldn't...
His thoughts came to a halt at the same time they reached the room. There, standing before the ladder that went to the mechanism room, stood Prince Siegfried and his Princess, both resplendently dressed in white. He wore a fine blazer trimmed in gold while she complemented him in a matching ball gown which contrasted her black wavy hair. The two stood, strait and dignified, before Fakir and Autor, who were less dignified in there half hunched potions at the stairwell.
"Fakir, Autor. It is a pleasure to see you again," the prince said with a smile.
Fakir stared dumfounded for the briefest of moments before straightening his posture and giving Autor a swift kick to make sure he straightened too.
"We are much honored you have decided to grace us with your presence," he said stiffly, "excuse our disorder, Prince Siegfried, but we did not expected you so soon..."
With no warning and certainly no prompt, the prince stepped forward and embraced the dark haired student in a hug. "Fakir, you know you don't have to act like that around me," he said with a good natured laugh, "we are like brothers. And please, dispense with the 'Prince Siegfried', I get enough of that back home. Here, I am simply Mytho, especially to you."
Fakir couldn't help but smile. It was a rare but much celebrated event.
"Currently, Mytho. It is a pleasure to see you again," he turned to face the princess, his smile disappearing, "Rue," he greeted curtly.
The princess nodded in acknowledgement, her own face rather blank.
Mytho didn't seem to notice as he let go of his brother and returned to the side of his princess.
"A pleasure it is. A pity it had to be under such circumstances," The prince's happy manner darkened as he said this.
Fakir's owe expression returned to its usual mask of indifference. "Yes, I must thank you for coming so soon after receiving my letter."
The prince gave the princess a quick glance at this but said nothing. Fakir noticed this, but decided to just continue
"I am humbled, Mytho, that you would take time out of what must be a busy schedule -"
"For you and Duck, a schedule means nothing," Rue interrupted, "And your letter sounded urgent."
Mytho nodded in agreement and put a hand to his chin. "Yes, tell us of this... specter that you keep encountering and what interest it might have in my little feathered savor."
"I don't know what it wants with Duck," Fakir said gravely, "All I know is that the story calls it the 'Forgotten King,' and it has attacked us twice, once to get Duck and once in a personal assault."
"And the story hasn't told you why?" The prince inquired.
"The only thing it has made clear is the king's interest in Duck, that is it," Fakir said, "I have been unable to control it in the same way I did during the battle. I don't know why."
"You're afraid to let go, that's why," Autor finally spoke out. This earned him a nasty glare from Fakir but before the black haired boy could say anything, Rue cut in.
"Yes, well I think you should take us to Duck as soon as possible," she said this with an air of urgency.
"Of course," Fakir agreed, "She is back at my room at the academy. I'll take you there," he eyed them quickly, "though you will stand out dressed like that."
The Prince and Princess nodded and clasped hands as they closed their eyes. They began to shimmer and sparkle in a bright light and when the light departed, Rue and Mytho where wearing the gray blouse and skirt of the girls uniform and the blue blazer and slacks of the boy's uniform, respectively.
Fakir nodded in approval and gestured to the stairs behind him. The group started their walk down the steps at a brisk pace and yet a silence hung in the air like a smelly dead rat. Fakir watched the royals in front of him intently, his eyebrow raised.
Finally, the silence was broken, "So how are things at the Academy," Mytho asked, "How much have things changed? I hope Mr. Cat is still his same self."
Fakir gave a grunt. "I'm afraid Mr. Cat was a victim of the story the same way Duck was. When the story ended, Mr. Cat..." he paused, "Well, he has a litter of kittens now, at least."
"Oh, that's good," Rue said simply.
Autor gave Fakir a look which he ignored.
They continued down the stairwell and through the secret passage and finally into the large, cavernous church. It was still and the beams from the stained glass windows cut through the dark gothic cathedral like the radiance that it was, creating beautiful contrasting environment of such splendor that it went utterly ignored by the party as they trekked silently across the alleys, pews passing them by like silent gravestones.
"Fakir," Mytho asked as they walked to the doors, "can I ask you a question?"
"What?"
"You've been writing, haven't you?"
Autor made to speak but Fakir gave him a warning glance.
"Yes, I have," was the dark haired student's response.
"And you have written of duck often?"
A pause. "Yes."
"That's good. I've bet you've written of her a fair bit."
"Yes, of course I have."
Autor interrupted angrily, "It's the only thing he writes about!"
Mytho looked back in surprise, "Is that so? Well they must be very interesting. May I see them?"
Fakir looked away, "I'm afraid you can't."
"Oh, and why is that?"
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Suddenly, Rue spun around and marched up the alley toward Fakir. "Okay, enough avoiding the issue," she demanded "why have you not shown anyone the story yet."
Fakir's eyes widened at this sudden change in demeanor and looked straight at the pointed finger that the princess was giving him.
"Well... I..."
"Dear," Mytho said calmly as he put a hand on his princess' shoulder, "we agreed that we would broach the subject gently..."
"I am broaching it gently!" Rue shouted roughly.
"Wait a moment," Fakir cut in, "are you talking about the ending I wrote for the Prince and the Raven?"
"Not just the ending, Fakir," Mytho said evenly, "But the whole extended edition. Why hasn't it been released to the public?"
"I wanted to," Autor said smugly, "but Mr. I-need-to-do-everything-mysteriously refused."
Fakir turned on his reluctantly made partner. "Stay, out of this cretin!"
"Don't talk to him like that," Rue said.
At that, Autor gave a smirk. "Why thank you, you're highness-"
"Stay out of this cretin!" Rue returned.
Autor stepped back.
Satisfied, Fakir returned to Rue, a look of irritation on his face to match hers. "It took me a long time to figure out how to finish the story," he said to the princess with a sneer, "to this day I'm not sure how I did it. The power that was written in those pages was something that I can not nor could I ever recreate. Why should I then go around showing it to every person that I come across?"
Rue made to say something, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. In a gentle motion, Mytho pulled her back, looking her straight in the eyes softly. It took a moment, but the princess stepped aside letting him forward.
"Fakir," the prince said to his friend politely, "A story only truly has power when someone reads it. That ending, while out here was able to stop the raven's machinations, has no effect on the story as a whole until it has been given power."
"Mytho's Kingdom is a mess, Fakir," Rue said, stepping out from behind Mytho, "most of the subjects are still crows and they all await their master, unaware that he is dead. We can't hold them back very much longer." The anger in her voice had a small pleading tone to it.
"That is why we were so early, Fakir," Mytho continued, "we were already halfway here when we received you're massage. We gave you time, but now we've run out."
Fakir tried his best to keep his usual stoic manner, not wanted his brother, the hot blooded princess and... Autor to see him in a moment of weakness, but ultimately relented to giving a long sigh.
Mytho wasn't done however, 'It's not just my kingdom that is in trouble. Tell me Fakir, what do you do with the stories that you write of Duck?"
This caused Fakir to give another look of shock. "I- I give them to Autor to go over."
"And then?"
He swallowed. He wasn't used to Mytho being this assertive. "I- I destroy them."
Mytho's eyes closed with a sigh. Rue's eyes only narrowed.
"Destroy them! Why would you do that?" She asked.
"Because it's dangerous," Fakir snapped, "I can't let myself become like Drosselmeyer, changing the world at a whim. This is a power that needs to be controlled."
"And it needs to be controlled so much that you're willing to lose Duck in the process?"
"What?" Fakir blinked, "Duck wasn't a story character. She was brought into the story just like Rue and I were."
"Maybe," Mytho considered, "but it is strange that even after the story ended, this normal, ordinary duck can still think and act and dance like a human, don't you think?"
"Okay, so she maybe a part of the story," Fakir admitted with a shrug, "so what?"
"Weren't you listening," Rue said, poking fakir in the chest with her finger, "A story needs people's love to survive."
"Without it," Mytho continued, "the story starts to weaken. It's not noticeable at first, but slowly the depravation takes its toll, and the poor story is gone."
"Gone?" Autor said interestedly, "Where does it go?"
"No one knows," Mytho said solemnly, "but there are rumors, whispers here and stories there, of there being a lost kingdom where the forgotten go when they have no place left to turn. A place at the edge of time..."
"A kingdom of the forgotten?" Fakir's eyes lit up in realization, "The Forgotten King!"
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"Imagination is powerful. Very powerful. There are some who will tell you otherwise, that imagination is pointless and the world should stay the same. They are wrong. Everything you have, the very house you live in, the art you practice are the end result of an imaginative spirit letting their thoughts run wild and daring to experiment. You would still be nothing more than animals without it.
"Stories are one of the rawest uses of imagination. Think of it, all that mental power going into creating another world, sometimes from scratch. Few realize that that is in of itself a type of magic, and when a creator brings a story to life, they actually bring that story to life, along with an entire other dimension for that story to play out and for the characters to live when it is all over.
"But imagination can only bring a story into existence. If a story is to survive, then it needs something even more powerful their imagination: love. Whenever you read or watch a story and enjoy it, truly enjoy it, you pump blood into the veins of those characters and their story, feeding hearts. A character's heart is very important as it keep them alive, sustained on the affection and adoration of hundreds of people from all around the world, reading watching or playing their stories and giving them power.
"But for every story that is loved and remembered, there is hundreds that are forgotten. And when a story is forgotten, it loses its heart and starts to fade away until its characters are lost in the ebbing tides of consciousness. This is a fate that almost happened to me and my friends, but we were lucky; a wise, kind (if a little intense) old wizard saw fit to build us a world where we could live in safety without hearts. Of course, this came with a price: we can never leave," Oswald finished, shifting on the flower sack from which he was perched.
Piké leaned back against the wall as she processed this information, the soft clatter of the turning wooden wheels the only sound that disturbed her. Oswald looked at his hanging feet but said nothing more. The wheels and gears of the lonely mill continued to rotate, unconcerned with the odd scene that was playing out within its walls.
Piké folded her arms and waited for the rabbit to continue, when he did not, she decided to speak up again.
"So, when someone creates a story, they make their own worlds? But spinners are different?"
"Yes," Oswald said looking up, "instead of creating worlds, they change the one they are in. As long as it would make a good story, they can shape their reality anyway they chose. Up till now, I thought they were just a rumor..."
Piké stroked her chin in thought. "That matches what we learned about Drosselmeyer. But he lived ages ago. Why dose Fakir have his power now?"
"Beats me," Oswald admitted, "Magic is hereditary, so they could be related. I know it runs in my family, though I'm not the lucky one in that regard."
"That would explain why what I remember was so similar to The Prince and the Raven," she said thoughtfully, "Fakir was finishing Drosselmeyer's Work."
"That's it!" Oswald cried triumphantly, "Carrying on the family legacy. It makes sense!"
Piké smiled at how all the logical pieces were coming together. After all, why wouldn't Fakir want to follow in his ancestor's footsteps? He was Goldcrown Town's claim to fame. Everyone in town knew of Drosselmeyer and his tragedies...
Oh, no...
"Oswald we have a problem," Piké said, going grim.
"What, you mean other than the obvious?"
"Drosselmeyer was famous for his unhappy endings," she continued, "every one of his stories ends with a tragedy except his final one, which had no end."
"Yeah, you mentioned something like that earlier. If Fakir is trying to be like Mr. Anti-Disney, then we might be in trouble."
"Not just us," Piké said, her voice growing low, "remember my vision, the one where me and the rest of the town turned into crows like The Prince and the Raven? And yet, we're all back to normal."
"Yeah, it ended. So what?"
"That's just it: a happy ending," Piké said, "why did Drosselmeyer's descendant give the story a happy ending? Shouldn't we all still be crows? What happened?'
Oswald tilted his head, not getting it. "So, you're saying that there was a happy ending?"
"No, I'm saying there wasn't, just that it wasn't our ending that was unhappy."
Oswald scratched behind his ear, giving a small cough. After a bit more thought, however, those dot eyes of his were the size of saucers in realization.
"Duck!"
"Yes! Duck. In my Dream, she came to us as a duck to free us from the Raven and save the prince. I don't know why, but it appears being a duck is the price for our safety."
"And to pour salt on the wound, he made everyone forget her, making them completely ignorant of the sacrifice she made!" Oswald finished in righteous anger, "And he did this to a real person. Not a character, a person. That is low."
Piké looked down at her hands folded in her lap, uncertainty apparent in her face.
"So now what?"
"Well," Oswald answered, "I was doing the trajectory and it's not that far to Austria-"
"We're not leaving without Duck!" Piké interrupt angrily, "Besides, if what you said is true then there is no place we can go."
Oswald put a hand to his non-existent chin in thought. "You're right. If the limit of his powers is as far as one's imagination, then it's... well, limitless. We have no place to hide!"
"We have no choice, we need to take the battle to him!" Piké pressed, jumping up and pumping her fists in the air, "we need step in and save Duck, and teach that ass what for!"
Oswald watched the young teen for a moment, his inky black eyes shining in the little light there was. A small smile curved on his ling of a mouth. She refused to runaway. She knew what the dangers were that she might be changed into some animal or worse, but she refused to run when her friend was in need of her.
She was better than him.
"Okay, Kid," he said, sliding off the flour sack, "You convinced me. Lets save your friend."
The student leaped up into the air triumphantly. "Yeah! We'll show that dime-store novelist what's what!"
"No!" Oswald said bluntly, "I'm gonna show that dime-store novelist what's what."
Piké's arms dropped to her sides. "But, but, but..."
"You will sneak in to tall, dark and literate's room and grab Duck while I'm keeping him busy. Can't write when a cartoon rabbit king is going down on you, can you?"
"But a rabbit...?"
"Hay, rabbits can be pretty brutal in the wild. Haven't you read Watership Down?"
Piké's frown disappeared and she nodded. "Okay."
"But promise me that if I don't return an hour later, you leave town and don't look back," the rabbit said quickly.
Piké looked for a moment like she would object, but didn't.
"Okay," she said, "You'll be alright, won't you?"
"Are you kidding?" Oswald said confidently, "I've fought tougher then some ballet dancing pretty boy who writes novels. I'll be okay."
He jumped down and hopped over to the door, Piké close behind. Soon, the old mill was empty again, still and quiet. Whatever strange plans had been concocted within its walls were now unimportant to the grinding gears or the swaying cobwebs. None of what had happened and of what was going to happen matter to the mill, for it was just a mill.
