(For more Author's Notes and Disclaimer, see Chapter 1 and the end of this chapter.) This story is set in the same universe as my "Chapter of the Duck," although it can stand alone if one understands that it takes place about a year and a half after the battle with the Raven, around late April or early May. Duck once again became human, and is studying ballet at the Academy; Fakir is away on a tour with many of the seniors in the Dance and Music divisions.
Charon had taken one look at Autor and made him sit down before pouring him a very small drink from a bottle. He put a little into Duck's teacup as well. Then he asked her what had happened while Autor's eyes bugged out and he gasped for breath.
Duck started with the letter from Fakir she'd gotten that afternoon, bidding her keep an eye on Autor, and ending with that evening's confrontation; but she didn't repeat the entire conversation. She began to falter as she realized what Fakir's reaction was going to be, when he found out she'd charged an armed man who had his friends all around. Charon merely nodded.
"Fakir doesn't want you in danger, of course, but I can't see what else you could have done, if they were that serious. I won't even argue that you should have waited for me," he said. "Now the Bookmen and this stranger know you are Princess Tutu–"
Duck sat upright. Hadn't Fakir–
"You needn't look so surprised. You look just like her now, you know. I think Fakir tried to cloud my memory with his stories, but it can't be done when I see you so often. It might work on someone who doesn't know about what he does though. In any case, the Bookmen seem to respect Princess Tutu and the Prince, if no one else.
"Now, what these men have found out is that we're all connected, although hopefully this stranger doesn't know it's Fakir he wants. That may be a forlorn hope, since he found the Bookmen."
"He has found out," said Duck, suddenly very tired. She'd said his name herself, and surely the Bookmen had told Vendetta anyway. How long had this taken? Barely an hour since she'd been waiting for Autor....
"Autor," she turned to him suddenly, "What did the Oak say to you?"
"She's so strong," he said hoarsely. "I didn't want to come out. I doubt I could have on my own." He drew a ragged breath. "They could have killed me and I'd never have known.... But it's not writing, not stories in words. It's music, all the music in my head. It's always been there. I never thought it was any good, it never sounds like anything I've ever studied, but I have to start playing it, letting it out...." His voice faded and his eyes drifted shut.
"Come on," said Duck, "We'd better get you home. Autor, wake up, just a little bit to go and then you can sleep." She turned to Charon. "At least we have an idea about what this stranger wants now. But he was lying. I gave him an excuse and he took it. I think he maybe does want someone's work erased, sort of, but he's still not being honest. I just can't see what the truth might be."
"Have to be careful," mumbled Autor. "No more damage." He roused himself and staggered to his feet. "I have to get back to the dorm. I don't want them near my parents. I shouldn't be here, even."
Eventually Charon left Duck and Autor at the front gate, making sure that Autor got to the men's dorm, and Duck to her own. Then he went home himself, disturbed. They were bright kids, like Fakir and Rue and like Mytho now that he was all right, but this was turning into a hornet's nest. Duck had never said this evening that she wanted Fakir back to deal with it. She might not be very good in school, but nonetheless she was intelligent– enough to know that Fakir might be in danger here– and there was a good bit of courage there too, enough of each to keep that boy from being hurt tonight. Some sort of distant cousin of Fakir's, this Autor, and now he was another who could turn thoughts into reality.
Well, we all do, thought Charon. It just takes most folks a lot more time and effort for less spectacular results, like me in the forge. Some people come closer, like teachers, and ordinary writers and artists. Sometimes I doubt it exists at all, this special power. But it doesn't matter now; what's important is that this stranger threatens my family over it.
Autor awoke in his own bed the next morning, wondering what his dreams had been. There had been more than the one he could remember, and none had been good. He had almost made up his mind that he should accept this commission, and be done with this Vendetta before the ballet tour returned.
Negating a story– no, a man's whole body of work. What was to stop that writer from fighting it? Was he already dead, perhaps? Was that why this less refined talent, his music, would do?
What if, like Fakir, this Spinner had helped some people? Could he pick and choose which stories to dismantle? Could that be done though music? Should it be vocal rather than just instrumental?
What if there had been benefits, indirectly and unintentionally released, and unrecorded?
What of the man's life, as well? Would his children have ever been born, assuming he'd had heirs, if the stories were never written? Would he have been able to support a family? Now that was that classic time- travel conundrum, thought Autor as he showered. Just supposing–
Pieces started falling into place. Vendetta could sense Fakir's presence here because he was a Spinner himself, although like Autor his talent might not be of a high order. Of course. What if that line Duck had fed him was so far off the mark as to have no truth at all, yet he had agreed to it? Supposing that Autor had composed or Fakir had written, and a long- dead author's works vanished, and the harm he'd done with them– but also the good? What if people were eradicated?
That would surely be murder. No one would notice, the world would be altered in significant ways, people would simply never have been born, but it would still be murder, wouldn't it? And supposing reality, or history at least, couldn't handle such a change; could the world be so affected as to end in chaos? Composing music wasn't like writing a few words; it had to be performed or it wouldn't work, he suspected, and no one was good enough to improvise this sort of thing as they played! Not when the ends wouldn't be known immediately, and the work itself would need to be re–done to correct every such error.
And supposing....
The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that he knew the intended victim's name. He sat down on the edge of his bed. If Drosselmeyer's works had never been written, at what point would he himself vanish? As the last note was played, or just transcribed? If Fakir wrote a story and left the name for Vendetta to fill in, as could perhaps be done from Spinner to Spinner, who would be affected? True, the town would never have been cursed. But Fakir's parents would not have survived– they'd never have married, one never would have existed. Neither would Autor's mother and her family. No Prince Siegfried, certainly no Duck. Charon and Rue would probably be born.
Would it be like dying, to vanish under the weight of new history?
But then who would have written the work, music or words, that was the foundation of the new cosmos, a whole new universe?
A memory surfaced. That was what one of his dreams had been asking, he was sure. What else was he missing? What had the Oak told him? That all was one, one was all, but that all was not always infinite. He remembered seeing the Oak in her majesty, from long before he was born–
–and felt the pain as axes bit into her trunk. Had Fakir felt that? He'd never mentioned, although he'd told Autor what he remembered.
Another tumbler clicked in the lock. He knew now who had cut down the Oak. Like Duck had said, they had a knack for getting things exactly wrong. The Oak would gladly keep her storytellers enthralled until their bodies died, as Fakir might have– himself too– thus weeding out the very people the Bookmen feared. Come to think of it, Duck had saved them both from that.
Had the Oak meant that to be infinite, an 'all' had to be defined in terms of the finite? Such as history? That it could not be infinite if history was split, as might happen if this story were made?
Did that last thought make any sense at all? Autor wondered.
He didn't feel like eating, or going to class all day, but he made his way to the dining hall anyway. Maybe Duck would be there.
"I think you're right," she said thoughtfully over her scrambled egg and toast. "Even if it's not Drosselmeyer he wants to wipe out, it'll be someone like him, probably with the same issues. I mean, I've had enough of Drosselmeyer– you know he tried to get Fakir to kill me, before the battle? But for Fakir not to exist, or you or Mytho or me– No. The world isn't for Drosselmeyer or Vendetta to play with, not like that."
"I wasn't in any shape to listen last night," said Autor, watching the clock. Duck would have to leave before he did, to change for class. "Did his voice still sound so strange?"
Duck frowned. "I don't remember it being as bad as that night at the theater."
"So he might not be so tone- deaf as to be deceived by just random notes."
"Maybe not. It might all be just another act, his being hard of hearing or tone deaf. Whichever."
No encouragement at any turn, he thought. "And we need to deal with this before Fakir comes back, I think," said Autor. "He shouldn't even be seen by this, this–"
"I agree," said Duck, rising. "But even if one of you does what he wants, and nothing bad happens, there's no guarantee he wouldn't be back. I don't know how to deal with him at all." Autor didn't know how she managed to keep her voice steady; she wasn't as detached as she sounded. "Sorry to leave, but I have to get to class."
Belatedly he remembered his manners and rose as well. "You did pretty well last night," said Autor. "Now he thinks you're just another idiotic, soft- hearted girl with a terrible temper."
"We can't be sure what he thinks," Duck replied. "But– thanks. If we let this all get on top of us, he will win. That's about all I know right now. Will you be practicing after classes? We should go check with Charon."
As she left, there was that faint prickle touching her mind again. For a moment she felt better. Hopefully, it was Fakir writing what she felt; something he hadn't had to do since she was a duck.
Thank you, Fakir. We're safe right now. I just don't know where to go from here. I miss you, but you can't be here yet, not until we know what to do. Whatever he might write down would not be in those words, she was sure, and probably not all of her feelings; but still he might be reassured. Then she thought of something.
Don't you dare let this mess up a performance.
Author's Superfluous Note: No, I don't know what Charon gave Autor. Not sure I want to. Note, however, that different countries have different standards; I assume that neither Autor nor Duck is underage in this place and time. The anime is very indefinite as to historical period; I like the idea of the early 1900's.
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.