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; see Author's Notes at the end of Chapter 8 for more information.

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–ch5

It was a puzzle. Someone had provided them with the food and drink; with care it would last for three days or a little longer, although the bread would be stale and the fruit they didn't eat would go bad. As the second day wore on it was evident that no one would be permitted to see or hear them from below. They already knew that they would be prevented from landing anywhere except for the lake near the Rock, and the top of the round tower itself.

Other things were missing, too. They could lay a fire in the hearth– but there was no means to light it, no flint and steel, much less any matches or conveniently glazed windows. The same went for the candles and lamps. What Rue called a garderobe and Duck a toilet (and once a two- holer) had no running water from the roof cistern to the sink, although there were pipes in place.

All in all, they would have been far worse off if they had not been able to eat and drink their fill as swans, and bathe in the clear lake. Which meant that the days were for talking and sleeping.

"If Mytho can break this spell–" said Rue abruptly, then changed what she was about to say. "Duck, I have to know. How could you give up flying? I don't know if I can. All the time I was Kraehe, what I could do wasn't anything like this. This is real, and it's wonderful. I know Elsa doesn't want to stop it either."

There was a long pause before Duck answered. "I don't know if there's an answer that makes any sense," she said finally. "I was hatched a duck, of course, so I could always fly, as soon as my feathers came in. But whenever it was that I started thinking like a human, and found all the other things I liked... I'm not putting this right. If you had to choose whether to be a swan that could fly but still thought and felt like a person, or to be a human, without knowing if you could ever change again, which would it be? With, you know, Mytho and three kids and ballet and everything."

Rue paused in turn. "That's what you had to choose, wasn't it? Fifteen years ago. Except for the kids and–"

"Yes. Well, no. I knew it wouldn't make sense. But the whole way back then– that's not the right time, I suppose. Then, it was a matter of returning Mytho's heart and saving both of you from the Raven. After that, though– when we worked out that we could really do it, change my shape that is, I had to choose for myself. And as much as we tried to dance around it, the truth was that I had a mostly- human mind and human feelings in a duck's body. I'd survived as a duck, but it was time for me to do more. If I hadn't, being a duck would have just been a disguise, sort of a crutch. Or maybe, once I had the choice, I might have had to be one or the other, and I might have had to be a duck the whole way and forget being a human, and everything. There were– things I wanted to do."

"It seems you've done them," said Rue dryly.

Duck laughed. "And more. Until Gottfried came along we weren't sure I could have kids at all. And I never expected I'd have anything to teach anyone, even the beginners. But it was simpler things, too. Have you realized yet that you don't taste or smell as much when you're a bird? I'd gotten to liking my food back then, even school food. And talking. Fakir and I got to where I could make myself understood pretty well, but it's just so much easier to talk. There were other things, too – reading, having hands and fingers, walking and running, and ballet most of all.

"All in all, I haven't missed being a duck as much as I was afraid I would."

"I'm glad things worked out for you," said Rue, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Mytho didn't realize, until I told him later, that you were Tutu. I mean, he knew Tutu was the duck, but he didn't know she was you- the- girl. When Fakir began researching Prinz und Rabe to find a way to let you change, Mytho wanted to help as much as he could, but I never really found out the particulars. I know he felt bad– not exactly at leaving you as a duck, but you know, we had our happy ending, and we left you with no choice and Fakir with what must have been a horrendous mess in the town."

Duck thought about that. "After you left, things weren't as bad as all that. We actually watched the Story follow you, and the town– well, suddenly it was like the town had never been through anything at all. People were confused, and that was what kept Fakir busy for a long time. They didn't quite know what they remembered, and certainly they didn't know what to make of it all. But they managed to sort things out for themselves, mostly. Fakir and Autor both say it's better if Fakir doesn't really do anything but help them sort of keep going. If he tried to control everyone and explain everything, we might all just end up in another story in town, only Fakir's instead of Drosselmeyer's."

Rue worked that out. "I'm relieved to hear that," she said at last. "Do either of your children show any sign of... doing what Fakir does? Making their stories come true?"

"We aren't sure yet," said Duck. "Kat, maybe not, but she doesn't make up stories often. When she does she draws pictures– and I have no idea where that comes from. Gottfried, maybe, but he prefers to hear stories rather than tell them. But still, he's only seven, and Kat's not quite five. They aren't as precocious that way as Raetsel and Charon say Fakir was."

"How is Raetsel? Fakir hasn't said much about her for a while."

"She and Hans are still right outside town, no new kids for a few years now..."

Elsa was sure neither of them would notice her rise and go upstairs.

So the visitor was Duck, and had been Princess Tutu, and was now married to Father's old friend. How on earth could the two of them just chatter away for the past two days, sitting or stretching or practicing, as if they'd never competed for Father's heart? As if Mother had never been...

The Raven's daughter. An evil witch. Elsa wasn't too young to know long since that the Prince's choice of bride had attracted criticism before Elsa's birth, from people who didn't know as much as she did. And now, it seemed, what she knew was practically nothing.

She climbed up to the battlement, up to where the skins lay in the sun from this morning. The edge of an embrasure was about the right height. She began to warm up.

"When," she asked the wind and the sky and the stones of the tower in a tight voice, "will they think I'm old enough to know who my own parents are?"

It didn't stop there. She didn't shout or yell, as much as it would have relieved her. Instead she just talked, and kept practicing, hindered by the still- rough stonework. Sigmund's bullying, the demands of being a princess and of ballet, Mother's strictness, Gunter's clinging, Father's lack of time for his children. Being a swan, and flying, and having to hope anyway that it would end, because otherwise there might be no her left, and goodness knew if Frau Schmidt could get home to her own family if the curse wasn't lifted. And now, even Father and Mother keeping secrets from her and her brothers, for all their lives.

Not that Elsa hadn't asked to be told the full tale. Always the answer had been that she wasn't old enough.

"Maybe," said a voice behind her, "it isn't you."

Startled, Elsa turned to see Frau Schmidt behind her. How long–

"How long have you been there?" Eavesdropping?

"Only a moment," said Duck casually. "Your mother's asleep. I thought I'd better work out a bit myself."

Elsa bit off the curt reply that she'd prefer to be alone just now. Control yourself. Take a step back, her father would have urged her. Be polite. You might learn something.

"I'm sorry if I've taken up a lot of her time," Duck was continuing. "But it's been fifteen years, and quite honestly, back then we never had the chance to be friends the way we wanted."

That was an intriguing way to put it, thought Elsa. How could you not hate each other's guts? Aloud she said, "What did you mean, 'maybe it wasn't me'? Whenever I ask them to tell me what really happened, all I hear is that I need to wait."

"Well, maybe it's them," said Duck, grunting as she stretched a little further. "Rue was about sixteen or seventeen, I think, when it all happened, and your father– well, it's a little funny, but from what Fakir says, he didn't seem to age at all without a heart. He seemed to be about the same age as Rue and Fakir just then, but he'd been in Goldkrone for at least ten years, maybe a lot longer.

"Anyway, we've all had a lot to forget. There are things that Fakir and I don't like to remember, and we didn't go through half of what your parents did, really."

"How old were you? If I may ask."

Duck paused. "As a girl, about your age. Younger than the others by a few years. As a duck– a matter of weeks. My real body back then was a little yellow duckling. I'm really fifteen years old, not thirty- something. Princess Tutu was as old as the Prince, of course."

I am on top of a tower with a crazy woman.

No. I watched them both turn into swans, and did it myself. And the story says she really was a duck. So who's crazy? See, I'm talking to myself.

But Duck– Frau Schmidt, Elsa reminded herself– was continuing. "They were, all three of them, the best the Academy had to offer. I was about the worst. I'd been bumped back into Probation at one point, and never got out of Beginners. But since I was a human only so I could be Princess Tutu, it didn't matter, in the end."

Something in her voice made Elsa think that maybe this was one of the things that she didn't like to remember.

"Didn't it matter?"

"Not compared to ending the Story, or to rescuing your parents; those were the important things. To me– it mattered a lot, of course. It's what I mean when I say maybe your parents aren't ready to tell you everything. Fifteen years might not be long enough yet for them to be able to talk about some of the evil they dealt with. And it was evil," she said, everything about her manner serious. "If they don't want you to know yet, I won't tell you either. But there's nothing fun or exciting about what happened, just people at the very worst they can be, and with a lot of power to play with."

"But you were Princess Tutu, and made it all come out right."

"I nearly screwed it up, for good, more than once. That would have meant your parent's lives, and the lives of people who had nothing to do with the story except to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," Frau Schmidt said a little sharply. Then her voice softened. "Princess Tutu was everything I wanted to be, for awhile. But she was– she is– part of your father's heart. For all that she was a ballerina, and magical, she was as human as he is, and as imperfect as I am. Being Princess Tutu didn't mean she– or I– couldn't fail, in little things, or in the most important things."

That was a scary thought. Elsa considered for a moment. Either she was up here practicing with an insane friend of her mother's, someone who thought she was really a duck... or she was talking to Princess Tutu. And Princess Tutu was turning out to be a little odd, maybe, but still rather ordinary. Elsa rather thought that Frau Schmidt would have little of Mother's brilliance onstage, but would be competent; perhaps not a great teacher, but– again– competent, and the one her students loved, who'd remember all their names for years after and keep track of how they were doing... So how–?

"How did all that happen? I mean, were you Princess Tutu, or was she you? And what do you mean, she's part of Father's heart?"

The conversation and the practice wandered on for quite some time.

In the darkness, a man wasn't sure he dreamed.

He could almost hear– guardians?– watching over him, bickering between themselves, but when next he thought he might be awake the pain of his hurts had lessened.

Other voices came and faded in their turn. One in particular anchored his attention. He could hear so much in it, guilt and anger and determination, fear; amusement, happiness, affection, humor, now a joy that he had seldom heard. Rich and complex, always fascinating, and beloved. If he spoke her name, perhaps she could come to him here. She would not be afraid here; she had been in darker places, and survived, and learned to triumph. No. No matter what pain or pleasure presents itself...

Another, in which he could remember the howling of a newborn in his arms, developing and growing... Had she grown so, in such a brief time? She sounded so like her mother, but free from the darkness, innocent. It was easy not to wish her into this place. Her place was still in the light and the air. Time enough to learn of the dark.

Other voices, more remote. Ones from his childhood, ones he had never known, as if imbued into the stones themselves. There were two he wanted to hear, but they were silent– no, his sons were safe elsewhere, they had no part in this. They had never been here, this place knew nothing of them–

A thought flashed, and he tried to pursue it. This haunted place. Voices in the stones themselves. Being made to come here. What else might be in these stones? What could grow and become more powerful as an ancient tower was rebuilt? Who was behind all this?

He filed that question away for consideration later. There was the problem of another voice to consider. He ought to know it. It spoke, not so much to his mind, but to his heart. Had he ever really heard it, as it was now? He thought not. He should recognize it, though; too familiar for him to name...

When he awoke next, he knew he was awake. It was dark again. He didn't want to meet his next challenger in the dark, and lit the lantern. The dim light hurt his eyes at first, as he prepared himself, and it made the shadows dance on the walls. This time he had his sword in hand.

The moonbeam touched the wall. He shuttered the lantern, to see when the moonlight reached the spiral.

The attack came, not from the wall in front of him, but from one side, nearly at floor level. A gout of fire– it missed him–

It hit the lantern. The King jumped away, nearly grazing his head on the ceiling. The lantern was snuffed– he feared it was broken now– and he was in darkness once again.

At least this time the attack could be seen, if not the attacker. Puffs of fire, hot but not much bigger than a candle flame, came irregularly from the other side of the room. Mytho could dodge and bat them away with the flat of his sword, mostly. A few touched him; he was glad that he was in wool and leather, which didn't catch fire as linen or cotton might.

He ducked as one went for his face. He didn't see the second, which hit a hole in his jerkin left by a previous one, and burnt his skin.

He almost bit his tongue, but he managed not to cry out.

There was a pause that lasted minutes. Surely it wasn't over so soon? The burn stung, hurting worse as the moments stretched out, and he couldn't spare the attention to treat it.

Then, just as he thought his foe must have gone, more fireballs. He nearly tripped over his pack; instead he snatched it up, having some idea of using it as a shield.

It was a long hour. He did not escape unscathed. And his water would run out if he wasted it on his injuries.

He needed enough for one more day and night. After that... either he would be free, or he would be here, in a place with no door. The curse would keep him here, in this chamber that could not exist.

He was glad he hadn't known about that in time to mention it to Rue. But starting on the fourth morning, there would be a rescue. His guards had their instructions. If the Royal Guard had to demolish this tower again to get Rue and Elsa out, and find him, they would.

Fakir wrote; taking Mytho's pain away, healing his injuries as best as he could in the time he had, letting him rest. He could do little enough, he felt. There was no one for the results of the curse to rebound upon. There was no one in the story to take Mytho's suffering, although he suspected that Duck and the others would have something to say about that; but if he let them bear it, their roles would change, perhaps upsetting the plot too much.

The frightening thought of a more masterful storyteller, who could block such an effort as taking away a character's pain, had occurred to them; but somehow it didn't fit. If there was such a person, he didn't know his craft, plagiarizing such an uncomplicated story in what was being revealed as a clumsy, ham- handed manner. Nothing to light a fire with, indeed.

Which possibly meant... something even more frightening.

"Maybe we're wrong about the trials being related to what Duck and the others are saying," he reflected.

Autor didn't even look up from his book. "No, that last was Elsa's contribution."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in a few years. You were always looking after Mytho at her age, remember? You chose to do that, and Charon never fussed over what you did like most parents do. Elsa's a princess, and a dancer who'll be as good as Rue ever was in a few years, or better. But she's at the age now where she wants to decide what to do for herself, and of all children that age, one in her position must have the least say in her life. The story took all her resentment and used it against her own father."

"When they find out..."

"It won't be pretty. What comes next, though?"

Fakir just looked at him.

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.

More detailed author's notes at the end of Chapter 8.

FFN does not allow the quotation of web addresses, but the first result of a Google search of " D. L. Ashliman swan maidens" will lead to a page with several stories, including the one from Germany used throughout this story, and several others.