Long ago, in a small town hidden from the rest of the world, there was a boy who loved to write. He had the power to make his stories come to life, much like the man who had died. He could've written about riches and great glory and wouldn't have had to give anything in return.

The town the child lived was infested with ravens. He dreamed of being a hero and tried to write a story that would lead to him defeating the cruel birds. But the tale ended in a tragedy when it became reality. The price to pay was his own parents' lives. In the end, he would have to give something in return whether he liked it or not. Nothing was truly free after all.

...

Ever so slowly, the writer slid the duck feather quill into the ink well, disrupting the smooth pool of liquid. The tip of the quill surfaced covered with slick black ink. The smell lingered in the air. Fakir inadvertently tightened his grip on the quill. The feather brushed against his calloused skin. He gritted his teeth and pressed the quill to the parchment to fill it with scribbles, hands smeared with ink and slick with sweat. Letters, words, sentences. Fakir had no concrete ideas nor a planned plot. The words failed to flow easily and instead tangled together to create a written cacophony. With a grumble, he slashed out what he'd just written, crumpled the paper, and hurled it aside. It rolled across the rough wooden floor and soon became lost in the shadows of the room.

The door opened with a loud creak; it had been years since the hinges had been oiled. Fakir looked up to see a thin silhouette, the daylight shining behind it to create a halo effect. He winced from the sudden brightness and rubbed his eyes. The door was shut, and Autor came into view. The shadows danced across his face to give him an eerie appearance.

"Writing again?" He raised an eyebrow at the stained paper and streaks of ink across the desk. The shine of his glasses glared stridently in the dimness. "You know, if I had your power, I'd fill my pages with many words and spin numerous tales. A shame such an ability has gone to waste with you."

Fakir clenched his fists and took a deep breath. "I have no interest in meddling in the fates of others. It isn't my intention to bring harm to the town."

"My words still apply. While you may not derive pleasure from torturing others, you should want to protect it from Drosselmeyer. Isn't that what you always do, play the hero? How valiant." Autor laughed dryly and pushed his glasses up his nose.

The boy averted eye contact and focused instead on the parchment in front of him. He couldn't rewrite reality, not on his own. His writing was a product of reality instead of the controller. Fakir played the powerful knight while hiding behind fear. His cowardice being both a shield and flaw; he was weak and relied on others for strength.

The air remained silent. The light of the lamp before him flickered. The writer finally said, "We don't know yet if Drosselmeyer is back." Really, that was a weak argument. There had been more than sufficient evidence that pointed towards the old man's return. A sickening feeling of dread lodged itself in Fakir's chest.

"Even so, it's sad that you've haven't written anything. Someone is awaiting your story."

Fakir paused, an act that allowed the ink coating the quill's tip to drip and form a small, dark blot on the paper. Fresh and wet, it shined under the dim light. He rested his forehead on the back of his hand. Long bangs fell in front of his face like the curtain of a performance. The writer wasn't certain of Ahiru's feelings. That time in the lake—hadn't they agreed to return to their true selves? But a thought, a forbidden thought, crept into his mind. If his mind was a garden, then the impossible thought was a weed hidden in the dark shadows and prepared to spread its vices to the other greenery. He wanted to turn Ahiru back. No, not just wanted—needed. Fakir couldn't bear speaking to the duck, entrusting her with his secrets and fears, only to have her give nothing but a soft quack and look of sympathy in return.

Drosselmeyer's story had left the pair with glory but certainly not happiness. Happiness was reserved for those who accepted their fate, not defied it. Rue and Mytho had been the epitome of perfect fairy tale characters; the former embraced hers as a villain, and the latter eagerly took on the role as prince. But Fakir had been destined to die. No matter what he said, no matter how he covered his cowardice in false bravery, deep down, he couldn't find it in himself to die.

Though as luck would have it, the knight had given up his life in a way. To protect the prince, Fakir had forsaken any chance at a normal carefree childhood, opting instead to look after the heartless Mytho's needs. As for Ahiru, her Princess Tutu had been fated to disappear into a speck of light. Ahiru herself hadn't vanished but Tutu had. Unless Mytho was willing to give the little yellow duck a shard of his heart, Tutu was gone and would never return. Destiny had a way of fulfilling itself in its own twisted way.

"I'm..." Fakir began in a hoarse whisper. "I'm not sure if Ahiru wants to be turned back. I can't do that."

The writer clutched the quill while he awaited a snort and rebuttal. Instead of arguing, Autor softened his expression and looked at Fakir with sad eyes. "I understand. You have someone you want to protect. But that is the issue: sometimes you have to risk hurting someone to save them. If you do nothing, nothing at all, that duck and the entire town will be in danger."

Autor's words hung in the silent air. Both parties remained still. The words echoed in Fakir's mind. Drosselmeyer was returning, and the burden of saving the town once more rested upon the writer's shoulders. He, the boy who had battled the ghost knight, valiantly swinging his sword and fighting with all his strength. But still the foe's blade had cut Ahiru. He couldn't even protect her, his own princess. Fakir had lent her strength in the final battle against the raven, writing furiously to change the story's ending. In the end, it was Ahiru's determination that gave the tale its happy conclusion. He couldn't finish the story; he could only help her end it. In the end, he wasn't a good knight or a skilled writer. The only thing he'd ever truly been good at was devoting himself to helping others. Always the helper and never the hero.

Tick. Tock.

It was the faint sound of an old grandfather clock. Fakir looked up to see that Autor had been frozen still. Empty eyes stared at him from behind thick glasses. He hesitantly reached out to touch his friend. Cold and hard, Autor felt like a marble statue. Fakir sucked in a sharp breathe and stumbled backwards. A thorn of fear, sharp and merciless, dug itself into his heart, which began to hammer inside his rib cage. The sound of soft footsteps on the slick wooden floor made him turn. Drosselmeyer stood shrouded in shadows, the heavy red cape hanging off his thin frame, the floppy feathered hat titled over his weathered face. His mouth spread into a wide grin to reveal large yellow teeth.

"So my descendant wants to write a story, eh? How pitiful." Drosselmeyer's voice could be compared to the sound of rusted gears scrapping together.

"Drosselmeyer!" Fakir lurched to his feet, clenching his fists, narrowing his malachite eyes. He tried to fight the thorns of fear entangling his heart as he stared down the man who was supposed to die. Drosselmeyer wasn't supposed to be alive—Fakir himself had destroyed the man's machine, which was supposed to end his ability to create stories once and for all. How could the sadistic storyteller come back to haunt him?

"You're trying to write responsibly, aren't you? Didn't I tell you that wouldn't work?"

The knight stepped forward, staring at the old man's orange eyes. He forced himself not to look away, feeling his blood run cold. "Get out! You have no place here!"

"Ah, that won't do, will it? You're a hostile character, but then again, all marvelous tragedies have one! Let's see if we can spin a new story!" The storyteller gave the boy a sadistic smile and clapped his wrinkled hands together.

"Don't even try—"

"Once upon a time, there was a duck. She had always been a duck but had once been a human girl. And as a human girl, she fell in love with a useless knight. Unfortunately for her, she became a simple bird once more," the writer continued. His bulging eyes lit up with glee. "Alas, neither the bird nor knight were satisfied with the situation. One day, the duck received a new pendant that allowed her to become a girl like before. Only this new gift came at a cost..."

The boy's hand shot across the fresh sheet of paper, filling it with the old man's words. Fakir gasped in horror and gripped his wrist in a fruitless attempt to stop it. The scar on his hand burned an angry red, a painful reminder of what happened before. "N-no," he whispered, lip quivering, eyes narrowing. Suddenly, his hand stopped, and the quill went limp.

"Write, boy. Finish the story—you know you want to. Just remember that there is a price for everything." Drosselmeyer cackled and snapped his fingers; the door opened, and he disappeared behind it. With the whirling of gears, he was gone.

Fakir stared at the fresh ink. The words burned into his mind. He had tried countless times to turn Ahiru back into a girl; what difference would this attempt make? Nothing he wrote ever came true. He was the knight fated to be sliced into two, the writer whose stories failed. He couldn't control reality like Drosselmeyer for he only wrote what would become reality anyway. Even if he could bend the world to his words, what was the price? A person couldn't get something for nothing; a price must always be paid. A person must give in order to receive for nothing could truly be created nor destroyed. That was what made spinning tales so dangerous. A happy story couldn't be created so easily—sacrifice and suffering were needed to make a happy ending possible.

When Fakir was a little boy, he wrote a story that caused ravens to descend upon the town. Their beaks sliced into flesh like knives and screams ring in the air. Fakir's childish scribbles had ended with him as the valiant hero, but the ravens had taken two lives in exchange for the glory: his parents'. They had died to protect their precious son, who hadn't become the hero after all. In the end, the boy had lost much and gained nothing. Unfortunately, the stipulation didn't stop Drosselmeyer. In fact, it only encouraged him. The tragedy-loving sadist had no qualms making sacrifices from the lives of others for the sake of his twisted stories. So just how much was the young knight willing to sacrifice?

Autor stirred to life. Upon seeing his friend's pale face, his eyes flashed with concern. "What happened?"

Fakir opened then closed his mouth. His throat was dry, and his tongue was heavy. The words wouldn't form. Finally, he choked out, "Drosselmeyer came."

"Really?" His friend's eyes widened in maniac excitement. "That's marve—"

A hand shot out and wrapped around the front of his shirt. Fakir lifted him from the ground. His eyes were dark and narrowed, and his mouth was twisted into a scowl. "Do not let me hear you say that again." The boy gulped visibly, and Fakir released him.

Autor shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose with shaking hands. Looking away from the writer, he began to leave. The door creaked open, and a sliver of light, warm and pure, crept into the dim room where so many evils had been committed. "Take into consideration what I said. Harness your ability. At your level of power right now, you cannot hope to defeat Drosselmeyer." The door shut. The light faded. Once more, Fakir was left alone in the darkness with his wretched fears. But—

"What are you doing, zura?" A high-pitched voice cut through his thoughts. The boy turned to see a little wooden girl appeared behind him banging on her drum. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as a wide grin crossed her face.

"U-Uzura?" the boy gasped. Fakir thought she had gone with Drosselmeyer when the story ended. Uzura was created from the wood of Ms. Edel, a puppet the old man had created as a narrator. She had set herself on fire to save Fakir, who asked Charon to salvage the uncharred pieces. As annoyed as he was, the boy couldn't deny that he was pleased to see that the puppet whom he had come to view as a younger sibling had returned. Perhaps Uzura had grown tired of the old man. The visit from his ancestor was still fresh in Fakir's mind. He knew that if he were to stay with Drosselmeyer, he would go mad.

"I wanted to see you be lovey-dovey with Ahiru, so I came here, zura!"

The boy hastily recanted his earlier thoughts. He was definitely not happy that Uzura was back. From handing him false love letters to constantly asking Fakir about love, Uzura had done all that she could to bring him together with Ahiru.

"W-What are you taking about?" Fakir's eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth, his face burning. He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, his tan skin turning tomato red. The boy had never done well in awkward situations and this was no exception.

"Why is your face red, zura?"

"S-Shut up!" he ordered, his embarrassment peaking. He shook his head and bent down to pick up the scattered papers. His long bangs fell into his eyes, curtaining his face. First Drosselmeyer and then Uzura? Despite being made from Ms. Edel's wood, the puppet was nothing like her predecessor. Her only purpose seemed to be to irritate him.

"Tell me, zura!" the girl demanded, pouting. She began to bang on her drum, the sound making Fakir's ears ring.

"Hey, stop that, will you?" Annoyed, he twisted her head around. "Honestly, nothing you've learned is good." Setting the papers on his desk, the boy slipped on his school jacket. He needed to research, to find even one clue as to why Drosselmeyer had come back. The urge to gather information nagged at him. Opening the door, Fakir glanced back at Uzura. "I'm going to the pond. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"I WANT TO GO, TOO!" Uzura ran after him, close on his heels.

The boy sighed, his grip tightening on the doorknob, his eye twitching. The last thing he needed was a distraction and Uzura was never one to keep quiet. "You're staying here and that's final—you're too noisy." He shut the door and left, making the diminutive puppet scowl.

...

The quiescent pond lay shrouded by the morning mist, hidden behind graceful willow trees. Bugs danced across the water, making the surface ripple, their translucent wings fluttering. The air was silent and still, like a paused story, save for the buzz of insects. Reeds lined the edge of the pond, obscuring a small yellow bird nestled near the shore, who pecking at bits of freshly-baked bread.

Fakir petted her head, a small smile crossing his face. In his right hand, he clutched a bundle of books and papers filled with scribbles. In another story, he had been a cloaked knight who protected everyone, and Ahiru had been a selfless ballerina. Now, he was only a student struggling to spin a story, and the duck was just a bird. She quacked and spread her tiny wings, waddling closer to him. A small smile crossing his face, Fakir lifted her into his arms. Ahiru's blue eyes stared up at him, filled with concern. She had given up everything she loved to save even people she hardly knew. To stand so much to lose and sacrifice it all without a single thought...

It was time for someone to sacrifice for her, to be her hero. There was no reason to make the green-haired boy think twice; the courageous duck deserved to be fought for.

"When I told you that it was okay to be the true you, I meant it. But a duck, that's not the true you," he whispered hoarsely. "You genuinely care for people—you loved Mytho even before you received the pendant, and you still love him. That's something a bird can't do."

Ahiru tilted her head. Her face was scrunched while she was deep in thought. The boy ached to know what went on in her mind. Did she believe his words? Or was he a fool to believe she wanted the same as he? Ahiru let out a soft quack and leaned her head against Fakir's chest. The knight nestled his nose into the duck's feathers. After a moment, he set her on the grass and pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a quill. Dipping the feather into the pot of ink, he pressed it to the paper, forming words and sentences. He understood now; in order for Ahiru to become human, he must trade something in return. And so, the young writer spun a glorious tale of a knight and a duck. Without hesitation, he gave his heart shard of hope to the princess he loved, the girl who brought light to his darkness, the girl urged him to never give up.

A sharp pain tore through his body like a terrifying raven's claw. Gasping, he clutched his chest in pain, falling to the ground. A scream ripped out of his throat and his eyes grew wide in agony. There was a ringing in his ears and he felt nothing but pain. The town grew dark and ominous. Thunder rumbled in the distance while lightning shot across the black sky with small flashes of red. A bolt blasted a tree, sending it tumbling to the ground, setting the bark ablaze. Ahiru flapped her wings, racing around the fallen knight in horror. She nudged him with her beak, begging for him be alright. Fakir laughed weakly, forcing a smile.

"Idiot, there's no need to be so worried," he forced out. There was a sudden sharp jab in his palm and he lifted his hands. There, in all its glory, was a glittering red heart shard. The duck quacked in surprise, waddling closer. "T-take it. It's yours now." His shaky hands held out the piece to Ahiru. His arms gave way, falling limp while his eyes fluttered closed and darkness enveloped him. Horrified, she rushed forward, her beak catching the heart shard. Upon contact, there was a flash of red light and she was lifted into the air. The duck's yellow feathers faded, revealing human skin. Her wings morphed into arms, her legs elongating. Sheets of paper swirled around the girl, assembling to form a silver ballerina's tutu. Dark green vines shot from the ground, tightening around her feet and turning into black pointe shoes. Combining with the heart shard, they formed an elaborate pendant choker with gossamer wings. The plants continued swirling around the girl, encircling limbs and fabric, decorating her costume.

The light faded and Ahiru fluttered to the ground, as graceful as Tutu, her alter ego. But Tutu had been dressed in pink and pure white, with flower petals and a gentle disposition, similar to Mytho. Her new form was somehow sharper, more aggressive, like Fakir. A strangled cry escaping her throat, the ballerina lunged at her fallen knight, cradling his cold body. "Fakir, wake up! Please!"

Laughter echoed throughout the pond, cutting through her desperate cries. Drosselmeyer appeared before her, clapping his gloved hands in joy. "Ah, Princess Tutu, you've returned! Only this time, you must retrieve your dear knight's heart shards instead of the prince's." The girl gasped at the mention of her alter-ego. When she returned the last piece of Mytho's heart, Princess Tutu had vanished. Ceased to exist. But...

"Drosselmeyer! What did you do to him?"

"Ah, my little duck, I never did anything. The knight decided to give you a piece of his heart so you could become human once more." Ahiru's eyes widened in horror at the man's words, her cheeks paling, her blood running cold. So Fakir really had sacrificed his heart for her. Her lip began to quiver when the realization hit her: it was her fault.

"But he is foolish, inexperienced with magic," Drosselmeyer continued. "He accidentally shattered not one piece, but half of it." With a gleeful cackle, he vanished.

"No! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!" she shrieked, burying her head into Fakir's chest. Tears dripped from her eyes, soaking the front of his shirt. Clinging tighter to his body, she allowed grief to drown her. It crashed into her like a whirlwind, wrenching her heart in two. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Ahiru struggled to her feet, her chest tight. Papers and leaves fluttered about, helping support the fallen knight. She began to drag him home, trying to stop the tears blurring her vision.

Fakir was suffering.

Part of his heart was gone.

Drosselmeyer would get the tragedy he wanted.

And all because of her.

Her knees gave way, sending the two crashing to the ground. The girl's shaking hands dug into the grass, her body trembling as she choked back a sob.

Fakir. The boy who stood strong and steadfast, always so willing to endanger himself to protect others. He had looked right at fate and defied it, refusing to die by the Raven's claws. He had clung to his sword and pen, fighting against the odds. Even when Mytho was poisoned with the Raven's blood, even when Ahiru was a duck, he stayed loyal to them. He was a true knight, despite what his ancestor's wretched tale said. Gritting her teeth, Ahiru stood back up. If Fakir could be strong then so could she. Lifting her chin, the diminutive ballerina continued on, refusing to stop until she reached his home.

There was the faint noise of footsteps and a drum, making her look up. Uzura raced towards her, banging wildly on her wooden instrument. "Ahiru! What happened to him, zura?" she shouted.

"It's my fault." Her voice was strained. Her throat was tight. What she had done could not be undone, for pain, while temporary, cut open deep wounds in your heart. She prayed that her tears would drown her and wash away the guilt. But it stained her, clinging to her body like an ugly scar.

"Are you okay, zura?" The green-haired marionette tugged on her skirt, looking up at her with concerned eyes.

"Hmm? I'm alright." She wiped her tears, reinforcing her hold on Fakir. "Could you open the door for me, please?" The little puppet obeyed, and Ahiru carried the unconscious knight to his room, where she laid him down on his bed. After checking him for wounds, she pulled the covers over his shivering body.

Her pendant flashed, making her touch her neck. The shard was not bright red like Mytho's but a deep crimson with swirls of black. It was chipped—flawed like the boy who'd given it to her. Unlike Mytho, a perfect storybook character, Fakir was human. Everyone had darkness in their hearts and flaws in their personality, but those imperfections were what made a person's character.

Ahiru's knees buckled and her legs gave way. She clasped his frigid hands in her and watched his still body. His face was peaceful and relaxed instead of twisted in pain. At least sleep offered him respite from his suffering. Ahiru laid her head on his chest, feeling it rise up and down, falling asleep to the faint beating of his incomplete heart.

Meanwhile, as his characters fell into a deep slumber, Drosselmeyer watched from his realm of gears, rocking back and forth in his wooden chair. It creaked loudly. The sound echoing in the hollow darkness. He sipped a cup of tea and a gleeful smile painted his weathered face. "Ah, how marvelous! Everything's going just according to plan. Soon the duck and the knight will be tangled in trouble—what a wondrous tragedy!"