Title: Afterword
Author: lostinabook
Genre: Angst/General
Rating: T (for references to violence)
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and its characters do not belong to me; they are the creations of Ito Ikuko and I am just a fan who likes to write. 3
--
Chapter Three: Story-spinner
--
Autor didn't find him that day, or the day after. It was almost as if Fakir had become as elusive and untouchable as the man he had inherited his powers from.
At the very least, however, the revelation that Malen had given him had snapped him out of his numbed state. Autor was no longer mentally crippled by the loss of his study. In fact, his mind had been working a full capacity since he discovered Rue's disappearance.
Logic coupled with his own vast store of knowledge quickly laid bare to him the facts of this new world. Firstly—and most obviously—Malen's apparent forgetfulness was too coincidental to be a mere fluke. Through investigation, Autor quickly discovered that others had gone missing as well, but no one seemed to question their absence. Even with some prodding, no one seemed to remember them at all.
Also, the animal-people of Kinkan—who had been just as average and mundane as ordinary humans when the town was still controlled by story—had disappeared as well. Some had reverted to completely animal forms, as was the case with Neko-sensei, the now-former ballet teacher whom Autor had found with a cat wife and a litter of kittens. Others had become human and continued on with life as usual (although Autor couldn't help but be wary of the pigtailed little girl who used to be a crocodile).
All of this couldn't only be due to the end of Drosselmeyer's control over Kinkan Town, Autor concluded. Well, it could be the reason for the animal-human reversions, but spontaneous memory loss? It didn't add up…
If everyone in town had been forced to forget the story when it ended, then why had he remembered? Autor's brain couldn't come up with a solution to the paradox.
Fakir… where are you?
The successor to the story-spinners, although hard to find, most definitely had not vanished with the others. If anything, he had become even more popular as the sole male dancer in the advanced ballet class. It was almost sickening, hearing the girls who had once idolized Mytho worship him, of all people.
But, despite his newfound fame, Fakir apparently was hardly ever seen outside of ballet classes (which, of course, had to coincide with Autor's music lessons, so there was no chance of catching him there). Rumors abounded as to where he spent his time, one of which claimed that he had been seen by the pond, writing.
Autor had accepted that Fakir was manipulating the memories of the townspeople without another thought. It was, after all, the most logical explanation.
I knew that he wasn't worthy of such power!
Now, all he had to do was find him. Talk to him. Force him to uncover the truth that Autor already knew.
It should have been me.
Autor walked faster down the empty hallway, continuing to let his convictions run freely in his head. He would make Fakir tell him what happened to Rue. …How exactly he would accomplish that, he didn't know, but his mind was set.
Preaching freedom from control and then manipulating the town himself…
It should have been me.
Almost as if in answer to his thoughts—or, maybe, in defiance of them—Fakir appeared seemingly out of nowhere, further down the hall.
Autor froze on the spot, his thoughts drying up expect for one that repeated itself over and over in his head like a mocking mantra:
It should have been me.
It should have been me.
It should have been me.
The story spinner seemed to be just as lost in thought as Autor was a moment ago. He had paused a mere few yards away, apparently looking at something that only he could see, ignoring Autor's shocked gaze entirely.
Fakir began to walk away.
"Ah!" Without realizing when he had regained mobility, Autor was chasing after him. "W-Wait!"
Fakir paused for a moment, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see who was calling him, and then coldly continued down the hall.
"I said wait!" Autor awkwardly slid to a stop, but Fakir continued his pace. This was not going as planned. At all.
"I don't have time for whatever it is that you want to talk to me about."
Autor's fists clenched. Fakir was just brushing him off like some annoying fly. After all he'd done…!
"Don't you dare ignore me, Fakir! I know what you've done to this city!"
Fakir stopped, turning around slowly to face him, his green eyes condescending and slightly irritated.
"…What are you taking about?"
Autor could feel himself shaking. "I remember, Fakir, so don't try putting on an act. Where is Rue?"
Fakir closed his eyes and sighed slightly, as if in exasperation.
"That's none of your concern, memories or not. I suggest that you keep going to wherever you were headed." He turned away again.
Autor's fury was burning up inside him. He had never hated anyone so much as he did at this moment.
He doesn't see me as a threat. He doesn't care about what I think, what I feel…
All that mattered to him was that the story ended the way that he wanted it to, with no regard for anyone else.
Rue…
Autor snapped.
With an inhuman howl of rage, Autor tackled Fakir from behind, slamming him into the wall, and punching him on the side of his face.
Physically letting go of his anger was the sweetest ecstasy.
He reached around to punch him again, but Fakir was ready for him this time. The story-spinner grabbed Autor's hands and shoved them both away from the wall. Autor began to yell at him as they grappled with each other.
"HOW DARE YOU! I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO HELP YOU! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A DAMNED HYPOCRITE, MESSING WITH PEOPLE'S MEMORIES LIKE THEY WERE PLAYTHI—"
In an instant, Autor lost his footing. In a strange déjà-vu moment, Fakir grabbed the front of Autor's shirt, shoving him against the opposite wall. His green eyes had turned to sharp slits. It occurred to Autor that Fakir might have been holding back on him until now.
"Let me make one thing clear. I don't play with people's memories. That was an effect of the story ending. I don't know why, but it wasn't me. And I don't want to hear any of your damned accusations anymore."
Autor stared at the deep purple bruise across Fakir's cheek and was very proud of himself.
"The story ended, Autor. Why can't you just go on with your life like everyone else?"
Fakir released his grip and began walking away once more. Autor slumped against the wall, shocked, unaware that his glasses were now hanging off one ear. This was turning into a disaster. He had to get Fakir to confess to what he'd done. If he couldn't at least have that, then…
"I tell them! I'll tell the Book Men what you've done!"
Fakir didn't pause.
"And… and I'll…"
He had to make Fakir stop.
"…I'll tell them to go after your duck girlfriend in order to find you."
Autor instantly saw that he had found Fakir's soft point. Not only did he stop, but his shoulders stiffened as if overcome by a sudden fear.
Of course, of course! Why didn't I think of it earlier?
"…What did you say?" As he turned, Autor saw the shock on his face.
"Don't think that it's not obvious, Fakir. Did you think that I was deaf, not hearing you speak the same words that you were writing?" Autor's drawling tone clearly had an effect, as he saw a flicker of realization in Fakir's eyes.
"You can only write stories about her, correct? She must mean something to you, being your muse." Autor grinned, relishing the pain on Fakir's face. "The Book Men will find that information very interesting, after they find out what you've done. After all, if there is no muse—"
Autor's head suddenly slammed against the stone floor, sending his glasses flying. Stars sparking in his eyes, he struggled to get up but was pushed down again, this time by hands clasped around his throat. Fakir's voice snarled above him.
"Never threaten her."
Autor could feel his windpipe collapsing under the pressure, dimly registering that his mouth was gasping like a fish. He couldn't see anything but a fuzzy gray cloud and the bright sparks that still hadn't faded…
"I could care less what the hell you think I did. You'd better make sure that you keep your mouth shut if you see me again in the near future."
Autor gasped again, and the pressure suddenly released. He nearly choked on the fresh air that suddenly entered his lungs. He lay on the floor, completely limp, suddenly with a healthy appreciation for the simple task of breathing.
He could dimly hear the sound of someone walking away…
After a few minutes, Autor cleared his throat and tried to sit up. The world spun around him. He slumped back down to the floor, wondering where his glasses had fallen. Everything was just a blur of colorful shapes without them, which wasn't any help to his already aching head.
But despite this, Autor was already formulating a plan for what to do next. Confronting Fakir had been an idiotic idea, he admitted that, but the situation had given him a better course of action.
Fakir obviously thought that he wouldn't try anything out of fear, otherwise he wouldn't have let him go like this. The new story-spinner couldn't have been more mistaken. Autor hated violence, but he never liked to give up.
If he couldn't make Fakir admit and reverse what he had done, he would just have to go the other route and make good on his threat.
It was high time that the Book Men got involved.