Princess Tutu © Itou Ikuko and Hal Film Maker, I'm just borrowing the characters for the enjoyment of myself and others.

This project is intended to be a chain of sort, one-shot glimpses into life in Kinkan/Gold Crown/Goldkrone following the end of the series, focusing mainly on Fakir and Ahiru.

There will be some chapters thrown in that focus on other characters, but the overarching focus is on the pair of them.

The End is a New Beginning

Fakir stared dumbly at the ever-growing inkblot forming below his unmoving hand, his mind completely blank. It was apparently one thing to say he was going to finish Drosselmeyer's tale and fully free the town of the story, and a completely different one to actually try to sit down and write it. He had completely lost track of how long he had been sitting there, frozen in place, before grimacing and giving up for the moment. Finally letting the duck-feather quill fall from his cramped fingers onto the ruined yet mostly bare page, he leaned his head side to side, feeling his neck pop stiffly with the motions.

This was the fifth day in a row he had holed himself up in his bedroom in the early morning, trying in vain to write a story that stubbornly refused to touch his mind. In five days he had managed to add only a handful of sentences. The child's flood of ideas had clearly dried up in a drought upon reaching adolescence.

He had been so determined to at least write something! He had no classes at the academy today, and even as a duck, Ahiru tended to sleep late and would not wish to leave her small basket nest until much later in the morning. The perfect opportunity for silence and solitude, and he'd wasted it staring at drips of ink for what felt like hours. He sighed, slouching in his chair and shooting a glare at his innocuous quill as if it were the instrument's fault for his inability to put words to paper. Knowing that his ire was not actually felt by the jaunty feather or the attached nib, he glared at the stack of paper too for good measure. Figuring that the third time was a charm, he narrowed his eyes at his inkwell and sneered at it as well.

It might not have actually done a damn thing, but it sure made him feel better, if only a little.

He rubbed idly at his right palm, the callouses on his thumb catching on the linen bandages wrapped around his hand. He knew that the healing wound wasn't helping matters much. His self-inflicted injury ached each time he lifted his quill to write, whether it was the pain of the gripping motion itself or a lingering regret at being unable to do more than barely support Ahiru in her time of need, he did not know.

He cast a glance over to the small duck slumbering peacefully on the far edge of his desk, his features softening as he watched her chest rise and fall. His heart ached when he thought about all she had lost, this fragile creature that he loved despite all his efforts to the contrary. There was just something about her that drew him in, and he meant his promise to stay with her from the bottom of his heart. For as long as she would have him, he was hers.

She certainly didn't seem to be unhappy, despite once again being small, downy, and well, a duck. She was still recovering from the exhaustion of her brave efforts to aid Myth- Siegfried he corrected himself, sleeping long hours and being carefully fed and cared for by Charon and himself. Naps were frequent for her, and they spent their afternoons after he returned from his classes just relaxing in the sun at the nearby pond that she seemed content to claim as theirs. For now, she was still too tired to do more than gaze at the clear surface from his arms, but he knew that in time, she would happily swim around in the cool waters.

If she was happy, he would endeavor not to miss the fiery redhead that had dared to fight with him, had battled for his friend with all her being, had breathed life and love into his own frozen heart. There had been brief moments there at the end, especially as he held her petite form close while they danced together, deep below the Lake of Despair… moments and memories that made his heart sing with hope that she might feel even a glimmer of what had grown within him for her. There had been times where the look in her eyes had seemed to shine just for him, not for the failed knight, not for the friend of the prince, not for the story spinner that could potentially set things right, but for Fakir, the quiet, often withdrawn young man that found himself drowning in those bright blue depths.

The image in his mind of those looks made is easier to hold her close and swear to himself that he would protect and love her always, even as a tiny duck that could neither speak to him, nor dance with him or hold him like she had after rescuing her from Drosselmeyer's clutches. For now, she would stay in their small house until she was well. If she wanted to return to whatever pond or lake had been her home, then he would find a way to see her every day.

Reaching out with his injured hand, he stroked his finger gently down her head, a small but fond smile gracing his lips for just the barest of moments.

He chuckled under his breath as he stood from his desk and began to make his way downstairs, thinking about how well his adoptive father had adjusted to the knowledge that the small duck Fakir returned home with was the petite girl with copper hair he had met when Raetsel visited before her wedding.

That was the lone thing he had actually managed to insert successfully into that thrice-damned story… that those touched by Princess Tu- Ahiru's! love and hope would remember her in some small way. It seemed for now, at least, he could still only write about her rather than control the story in any other meaningful amounts. Those few lines had come easily, naturally, flowing like water from his hands the moment he tried to put quill to paper when he first attempted to add to Drosselmeyer's writing. He knew it manifested differently from person to person from those he had spoken with; apparently the more closely one had been involved with the story, and with Ahiru, the deeper the mark she had left upon their heart.

Autor, the smug bastard, reveled in the fact that he remembered and knew that Princess Tutu and spritely Ahiru were one and the same, and that she had helped break the spell over the town, but Fakir had the last laugh; if the bespectacled boy had ever discovered she was a duck from reading the tale, he had now forgotten that detail and assumed Tutu had vanished completely. Her two strange friends seemed to remember her as a classmate from long ago that had left for a reason they couldn't recall, a vision of a past far more removed than mere days.

Charon on the other hand, had forgotten entirely about Princess Tutu and his encounter with her, but on the evening following that terrible night and the morning of sunlight, revelations, and goodbyes, he surprised Fakir. Out of nowhere, Charon asked if Fakir would ever bring his cheerful friend home with him again, and was able to vividly describe her when Fakir had attempted to feign ignorance. Exhausted, sore, and strangely relieved at Charon's memory, Fakir had broken down into bitter tears as he told Charon everything, gesturing to the small downy form sleeping silently on the kitchen table where he had left her. Through the long explanation, Charon held him close, his hands rubbing soothing strokes down his back and across his hair as though he was a small boy once more. Discovering from reading Drosselmeyer's haughty scrawl that a piece of heart had latched to his father figure had come as a shock to Fakir, but that was nowhere near the surprise he felt when Charon wholeheartedly believed him and his tale, gently scooping the sleeping duck into his arms and offering to find a suitable place for her to rest and recover. He had pointed commandingly to the stew simmering on the stovetop and ordered Fakir to eat while he made arrangements for their tiny new housemate. The basket he had returned with, swaddled with clean towels, had been nothing short of perfect.

Feeling his stomach rumble as he thought about Charon's delicious stews, Fakir stepped into the cheery kitchen and was surprised to see his father standing before the stove, meticulously stirring a pot of what smelled like oatmeal. Before he could even open his mouth for a greeting, a warm look was sent his way as Charon peeked over his shoulder at him and smiled.

"Good morning!" he called out, motioning towards the cupboard with his free hand. "It was so chilly this morning when I first woke up, I thought something hot for breakfast would be nice. It's nearly finished, if you could get out some dishes for us."

Fakir nodded, mumbling a quiet "good morning," back as he trudged over to the cabinet, the thumb of his left hand still rubbing at the palm of his right. It seemed to be bothering him more than usual today, he noticed with a frown. Mechanically, Fakir grabbed bowls and mugs as he noticed the scent of hot coffee mingling in the air. He set aside a smaller third bowl for Ahiru as he set the table, knowing she would probably be ravenous when she finally woke up. Cold or not, Charon's oatmeal would be perfect for her, nice and soft. He tried to make a mental note to add cinnamon and sugar, figuring that suited her better. He wondered how long she would sleep today…

Feeling his mind start to wander, Fakir sat down at the table in a daze, staring unseeingly at the empty bowl before him. His thoughts drifted to Ahiru, and the memories of holding her tiny feathered body close after finding her in the streets of town following their triumph over the Raven. She had looked so weak, so delicate…

It could have been minutes or hours before he was disturbed by Charon's hand falling upon his shoulder when he came over bearing the delicious smelling meal. Fakir jumped in response, his spine jerking straight with the motion.

"Are you feeling alright?" Charon asked, a serious look upon his face. His eyes searched Fakir's face for some clue, but found him closed off as usual.

Fakir avoided his gaze at first, and then sighed, begrudgingly knowing he was going to eventually admit his problems whether he wanted to or not. He mentally blamed Ahiru. All her open honesty had started to get to him. "Not really," he admitted reluctantly. He knew he was acting childish, but couldn't help pouting and playing with his spoon in his freshly-filled bowl, despite his hunger.

He could feel a heavy stare leveled upon him. He glanced up and saw Charon looking at him expectantly. Fakir fidgeted in his seat. That look made him feel seven, not seventeen.

"Well? Did you want to talk about it?" Charon was a vision of calm curiosity. He managed to remain fully focused on Fakir while eating, his eyes never leaving his perturbed ward. Fakir wondered idly in the back of his mind how he did that.

Fakir's eyes flicked up to Charon, back to the oatmeal, Charon, oatmeal, Charon, before settling on the direction of his bedroom where Ahiru slumbered peacefully. "Not really," he mumbled again, leaning his head down to the table to try to hide the flush of shame rising on his face. Rolling his head to the side so his cheek rested against the smooth wood, he sighed again, really starting to hate hearing that sound coming from his own mouth. Even hiding his face from him, he could still feel Charon watching him. Parents can be very unnerving, he decided. Resigning himself at last, he admitted, "I can't seem to do anything."

"From everything I've heard and seen over the past few days, it sounds to me like you've already managed to do an awful lot." Charon's words seemed to lift his spirits a little, and a small smile flitted across Fakir's face. "If it's that story you're fretting about, give it time. I know raising your pen once more must have you feeling a little trepidation after…. after the past." He smiled his warm, paternal smile again at Fakir, despite the fact that the boy was pointing the top of his head at him. He reached out to pat his hand. "If you're worried about Ahiru… I don't know too much about ducks, or really any birds beyond the basics, I'll admit, but she's livelier and healthier looking every day. You both just need to rest. I still think you should have taken some time off before returning to the academy; I could have written to them that you were ill and needed to recover." Concern had knitted his brows together just slightly as he spoke.

"I'm fine. I've been taking it easy during practices, mostly just sticking to basics. We have a lot of unmanaged time in the advanced classes." He raised his bandaged hand from the table and waved it feebly, "This is the only thing that's really bothering me." Fakir finally lifted his head from his moping position on the table and ate, appreciating just what a good cook Charon was, especially for an unmarried man. "As for the other things…" he almost trailed off entirely, but his eyes ghosted towards the stairs once more before settling back on Charon, "I'm just frustrated. I can't seem to find the words for, well, anything. I promised I would fix everything left in Drosselmeyer's story, and I can't. I have spent hours every morning starting at blank pages without writing a single line for four days now."

Charon watched him for a few moments, deep in thought, before speaking. "What still needs to be fixed, exactly?" he asked finally. "I might be missing something, since I was just a bit part," he chuckled, "but everything feels…. Right? Normal."

Fakir frowned. He hated to admit it, even to just himself in his head, but he hadn't thought of that. It's possible Ahiru and My-Siegfried - really, was that so hard to remember? Perhaps Ahiru and Siegfried had managed to completely end the story, breaking the spell that had encompassed Goldkrone entirely. He hadn't noticed a single walking, talking animal, and he and Ahiru had gone to check all five city gates in person before returning to Fakir's home, finding all of them open and watching people walk out of and into each in turn before being satisfied. Realizing he was staring into space, Fakir looked back at Charon, merely saying "hn," with a grunt of acknowledgement.

If the story really was complete… who was he to meddle?

And yet… he knew, could feel it somewhere deep inside of him, that there was something that he should be writing, something that he needed to write. His eyes drifted once more towards the stairs, and realization slowly trickled into his mind. If she was all he could write about, then she was what it would be. He would write her story, her tale of bravery and struggles and love and...

Without a single word of explanation to Charon, he was gone from the table, small bowl of cooling oatmeal in hand. He climbed the stairs two at a time, entirely focused on the words flowing unbidden into his head. He might not have much power to control yet, but he could certainly record, and there was nothing more he wanted to remember and hold onto then his memories of Ahiru; of the kind-hearted duck whose love made her human and of her valiant efforts to be more than a few short lines in an old story.

Placing the bowl next to her basket so she could reach it once she awoke, he tossed away the ink splattered top page and within moments his hand darted across the fresh paper, his duck-feather quill dancing in the air with each flick of his wrist as the words poured out almost faster than he could think them.

This would be Ahiru's tale; the account of a loud and clumsy little duck who would become so much more.

It would be a story overflowing with hope.