Written for twinenigma, my LJ Secret Santa recipient, who suggested a version of the "Swan Maiden" tale for a prompt, and may be getting a lot more words than expected. It's a very good prompt.

The tale was true long before the Kingdom existed. Fifteen years ago, the Prince returned, having defeated the Raven and won the hand of his daughter. Now the King and Queen and their family confront a far older power than Drosselmeyer's hand in their story, while others are drawn in just as unwillingly.

Always a Price–ch2

By the last of the light in Goldkrone, the man and woman made their reluctant way to the gate nearest the lake, hand in hand.

Fifteen years ago the world had changed for them. He had discovered that the most important talent he possessed was neither fighting nor dance; she had had her first taste of humanity, and relinquished it when she needed to.

Twelve years ago they had very carefully and painstakingly, so they thought, changed the world for themselves.

A story that has no ending, they had once heard, was a cruel thing. Yet no story ever did end. Whether happy or miserable, Ever After was not eternity bound in an instant, dismissed with the closure of a book or the silence of a tongue; it was the courses of lives, and lives were never to be trifled with. Not their own, not their friends', not total strangers'. And so the Chronicle had begun.

Not the tale of Goldkrone. Making all right with a town insinuated sideways into the real world had been less work than expected. There had been confusion, of course, but if lives were not to be taken lightly, then people were not to be controlled if there were other ways. All but a few had adapted quickly and unknowingly. It was as if they had always lived in both worlds, and only had to decide which was the proper one at the moment.

Which suited the writer.

The Chronicle was not a story that would come true, as the man's gift could make it. Instead it was a record of a fairy- tale Kingdom, of their friends' happily- ever- after, after the fact. Once every month or two, Fakir would shut himself in his cramped study for a few hours, late at night or before dawn so that the children did not disturb him, and would write what had happened to their friends, and then give it to his wife to read.

Four times, over the course of fifteen years, she had felt that he ought to write in the Chronicle. Each of the first three times had been the birth of a child. He had wondered why, at first.

Now they knew. Whether the Story was as far away as the stars, or as close as the thickness of a shadow, was immaterial to the woman who had been Princess Tutu. She had given the Prince his heart back, piece by hard- won piece, and still it called to her in return, when the occasion demanded.

He had realized, soon after he had started the Chronicle, how much power there was in the Kingdom of that story. Drosselmeyer had not quite created it, after all; it was any and every fairytale land, its borders nebulous, its particulars shifting with every use, its magics many and deep and varied. Some of that power had been unleashed upon Goldkrone at Drosselmeyer's death. Only a fraction: that carried out of the story by the Monster Raven and then by the Prince who imprisoned him.

It was only right, Fakir had reasoned so long ago, that some of the magic of the story be used to heal the one injustice that affected them most closely. A duck that had been human, they had found, might make a slightly odd sort of human, but even a humanity foregone could be a curse for a duck. Memory and thought, neither of which she was willing to give up, got in the way of the very important business of living as a bird.

He had not presumed to turn her into a girl again. Instead he had been able to give her the choice of which form to take, as she wished. The story could surely spare that much for her. There, she was the heroine who had given the Prince back his heart, at the expense of her own humanity.

She had, as he had privately hoped she would, chosen to be a human. He hadn't expected to be married so soon after, but it had happened, and they hadn't regretted it. He had been on the Academy staff by then, coaching ballet and teaching literature and writing; so once they were married she had been able to use the facilities to resume dancing. She had never had a professional career as a performer outside of Goldkrone. Twice her progress had been interrupted by the children. Then a few years ago the Academy had been, as always, desperate for instructors, and everybody on the staff had known her. Now she assisted with beginners and probationary students.

They lived in a small, cramped house made even smaller by the energy of two growing offspring, who at times made Fakir feel as if the lesser sins of his childhood were being inflicted upon him for Grandpa Charon's amusement. Not that he would have traded them for convenience or a quieter life, or anything else, by any means.

The two of them danced and taught, and he wrote, and they all scraped by. Yet for all these years Damocles' sword hung over them, the price of their happiness; for if the story could change Duck, then Duck might have to be Fakir's or King Siegfried's agent to affect the course of the story from within, as Fakir could not be.

The blow had fallen only the day before yesterday. Break had just started. They had just come back from practice. A few minutes later Katerina had brought him from his study, frightened, calling for him to help Mommy.

He'd found her on hands and knees, her face white, trying to catch her breath. Duck had fallen on the garden path. That was all, surely? He'd carried her inside, but at her insistence, he'd put her on the short couch that claimed one wall of the study, then he pulled out the Chronicle.

What she had felt, she said when she could talk, was Mytho's heart breaking. The horrific details unrolled beneath Fakir's pen, though one thing hadn't happened as they had feared. King Siegfried had not shattered his own heart a second time. But–

His daughter, and his wife, gone.

"Rue," Duck had said. That was all. They'd known then that Duck would have to go; Fakir could not. Not if he were to be of any help with his pen.

Fakir went back to the Chronicle time after time, that day. When Duck felt better, she thought to send Gottfried running down the street for Autor. When they returned she left Autor and Fakir to it, knowing that Autor would ask the right questions for even a distraught Fakir to find the right answers.

A black swan and a white one. Siegfried. Swan Lake? But that was only the latest of dozens of tales with women turning into swans, she knew now, and what would happen if a duck (or a duck- woman) were inserted into such a tale? Again, really. Sort of. Stories were never all swan- maidens plus a duck, were they? Not the old ones. Just hers...

She felt better by then, at least physically. Fakir and Autor were still at it by the time she and the children had eaten lunch. She took sandwiches in for them as well, and was surprised by Autor's words as she entered.

"If it's all right, Duck, I'd like to take Gottfried and Katerina to the park for an hour or so. You and Fakir need to decide how you're going to proceed. You don't need any of us for that."

Relieved, she had nodded. He was their godfather, after all, and made a point of spending time with them on a regular basis.

Autor was watching them now, he and his wife, as Duck and Fakir walked across town to the lake.

There had been little to decide, two days ago. Duck would have to go. Fakir would have to make sure that she changed properly, and arrived at her destination– she hadn't flown for twelve years. As for Siegfried's Kingdom–

There was a story at work, a swan- maiden story, as they knew already. But they did not know which one yet, even providing it was one they already knew. Or it might be a variation of an old tale. The number of swans varied in such tales from one to as many as a production of Swan Lake could fit on stage. The roles varied too, from the maiden captured and freed from (or kept from?) her form by her suitor, to the siblings cursed by the evil stepmother, to Odette and Odile.

What Fakir found daunting was that it needn't have started as a swan story. There were tales from the North of a similar nature, about seals and mermaids, for instance. They weren't dismissing those either.

The Chronicle had not been of any more use to them until yesterday afternoon: Rue had been able to find Mytho on the road near the lake shore. Elsa was still a swan; she hadn't worked out yet how to shed the skin. Rue had left her at the foot of the Swan's Rock, exhausted. Whoever or whatever was drawing them to the old castle hadn't shown themselves, but nonetheless they were being pulled in, and the closer they got the stronger the pull had become.

Then this morning, Mytho had found the hermit who had first told him of Princess Tutu. As before, he had left not with the answer but with more questions: he could break the curse for Rue and Elsa, but there should by rights be more than two swans present.

"'And how could that be, if the last hide had no more magic?' asked the King. 'Not to worry,' said the hermit. 'The story would have its cast. Princess Tutu hadn't gone to all the trouble to gather His Majesty's heart just to see him fail in such an endeavor as this.'

"But Princess Tutu resided in the King's heart. That was the answer to the puzzle the hermit had posed to Prince Siegfried, all those years ago. Was he to pierce his heart again? Against what foe, that was not to be seen?

"'No,' the hermit had said forcefully. 'Listen and think and remain silent, no matter what pain or pleasure presents itself. You will be tested. You alone, and all of you. Your power has been in words, the power of a King, vows and decrees and proclamations; you must forego that authority, and test the strength of your heart as it has not been tested since Princess Tutu restored it. If you succeed, in three days of trials you will break the ancient curse. If you fail, the swans are bound once again to the Swan's Rock, and so will you be, King of Swans.'

"And so the King left the hermit for his own castle, now enchanted by no one knew what."

Nothing more had asked to be written since. But Autor and Fakir had narrowed their search from many dozens of different tales and variations to half a dozen or so. Still, while they knew Duck was to go, they did not know what role she was to bear. They would have to send her, and hope.

Outside the gate, down the path to the dock. Satchel emptied, paper and ink and pen ready. The moon was already high in the sky, the sun ready to set, the night's chill ready to descend. Why she must fly under the moonlight, she did not know, but that was what she knew would be the way to Siegfried's Kingdom from here, tonight, for her.

No protestations that she would be fine, that everything would be all right. Only the promise that they would both do their utmost for their friends, and then to bring her home, could be true now. Everything else had been said over the past two days.

One last moment...

"Fakir, wait!"

"Now what?" growled Fakir. It was Autor, who stopped running as soon as he saw them, relieved.

"Thank goodness," he wheezed. "It's important. Fakir, when you change Duck– don't call her a duck."

"What?"

"I mean it. Call her a bird, or a fowl, or a waterfowl, but not a duck."

"What difference do you expect that to make?" Fakir was not going to give an inch, Duck knew. Not when they had been interrupted.

"Maybe none," said Autor, still breathing hard.

"It's okay," Duck said then. "He's right, it won't make any difference to me. I know how to be a duck."

"You haven't been for years."

"Try it," she urged. Autor wouldn't have run here so hard as to leave himself gasping, if he didn't think such a small distinction was of great importance. Fakir also knew, as Duck did, that Autor was seldom wrong about writing. It was exasperating that neither of the men had ever gotten past the habit of resisting the other, even if it was only show.

Now wasn't the time, anyway. Duck kissed her husband one last time, then stepped away. He closed his eyes, opened them to a blank page, and began to write.

The task resisted him for only a moment, then the words began to flow of themselves. He only had to keep up, he found. The story that was taking shape didn't want Duck to be called a duck either.

He dared not lift his eyes when light flared for a second. When it faded, it was too dark to write. He blinked, but it didn't help. The sun had gone down too. He finished the last line mostly by feel before he looked.

Autor whooped.

Fakir sank to his knees, stunned. Duck looked at him. Straight at him. It seemed to puzzle her.

"Duck? Remember, you'll need more space to take off now," Autor was saying. "And a lot more food. At least clothes won't be a problem this time."

Duck tried to quack at him, and startled herself by emitting something between a low chirp and a squawk. Why was her bill so long? How could she look at Fakir from this angle? Her body was about the right shape, but...

Why hadn't she had to find her way out of her clothes this time?

"You didn't turn into a duck this time. The story turned you into a swan! Do you understand that?"

She waddled to the water. White, of course, she was a white duck anyway. Orange bill. But now, instead of being short and a bit pudgy and quite cute, her neck curved gracefully above a streamlined body. Her wings spanned feet, not inches. Her own blue eyes looked out of a black mask.

She would be the third swan.

"We know which stories to look at now. This narrows it down to two or three at most, I think."

"Autor, shut up," said Fakir hoarsely. Duck went back to him for a moment. There was an advantage to being this size. While he knelt she could wrap her wings around him, and reach her neck around his. Carefully he returned the embrace. Then he took a silver chain from his pocket. She dipped her head. It would be a short necklace on her when she was human; now, it was loose. Fakir tied it up even shorter with a thread so that it wouldn't interfere while she flew; the thread would break if she changed back. On the chain was strung her ring. She'd refused to go without it.

In a tired daze he watched her then, as she entered the water, paddled and then ran, flapping until she was airborne. They watched her disappear, under the moon, as the stars came out.

The vigil began.

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.

Still no music suggesting itself; it may be waiting for the finale. I'd like to leave Swan Lake itself to the series, pretty much, rather than using it here.

Fakir and Autor have a large body of work to go through just of European and Classical swan- woman stories. When other shape- shifting tales are added- mermaids, seals, ravens, et al- the number multiplies, as it does when other cultures all across Eurasia and the Orient are included. Possibly the best- known is "East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon", which is close to (but not the same as) the story used for a prompt here.

In Celtic lore, swans that are shape- shifters were to be known by a silver chain looped around the neck. Another site I visited had a recording of a mute swan's call. (I found also that 'mute' swans are only relatively quiet, not at all silent; they have a range of vocal sounds.) Again, references may have to wait.