Once upon a time, there was a swordsman whose sword had been taken from him. One day, a maiden found his sword and returned it to him. Indebted to her, the swordsman pledged to stay by her side and fight for her cause. Over time, the swordsman fell for the maiden and no longer stayed by her side out of a sense of duty, but rather out of love. However, as the maiden pursued her cause, it became clear that she would have to die in order to achieve her goal. The swordsman was forced to make a choice: follow his heart and betray her, or keep his promise to her and let her die.
Dread washed over Fakir every morning the moment he woke up. Dread and anxiousness. Anymore, the only thing that seemed to offer him any solace was the brief, fitful sleep he managed to get at night. Every waking second was committed to the horror that was his current situation. Ahiru was… he didn't even know what to call it. If the Raven had still been around, he would've thought that she had been tainted with Ravens blood. She was cruel and calculated, her words designed to spear your every weakness and insecurity—all thinly veiled by a coquettish demeanor. She regarded everything with a sort of detached malice.
It had been two days since he found her standing on the Lake of Despair—two days since she disappeared again. His heart ached every time remembered the frigid way she regarded him, but he couldn't stop running through everything that had happened and what had been said the last time he saw her—like a poking an injury that hadn't quite healed.
"I see you finally remembered me."
Fakir's eyes widen in recognition and he turned to the source. There, standing on the water, in a black ruffled puff-sleeved top and skirt, staring at him with cold, dark blue eyes, was Ahiru.
"Ahiru?"
She stared down at him with a frown before approaching him, the water rippling under her. Ahiru leaned down and lifted his chin higher with an index finger, her midnight blue eyes inspecting his face with indifference. "Somehow you always find a way to wear my patience down." Her voice was devoid of its usual cheerful jingle—now replaced with a husky derision.
"Ahiru—"
"You promised to always stay by my side, so where were you, hmm?" She dipped her head down lower to him as if she were going to kiss him but stopped a hair's breadth from his lips. "Such. A dependable. Knight." She spoke each word haltingly as she glared into his eyes, leaving him breathless in her wake. Releasing his chin, she straightened up and walked past him.
Fakir blinked trying to process everything that was happening before he scrambled out of the water after her. "Ahiru, wait!"
She paused, her back to him.
Fakir grabbed her wrist. "I've been looking for you, I swear. I thought about you every second. Please…"
Ahiru turned towards him. "Please? Please what?"
"I just want to know that you're okay. What's happened to you?"
Ahiru looked down at where he held her wrist. Fakir, noticing her stare, readjusted his grip in case he was holding her too tight. She scoffed with a laugh at this. "You did, Fakir. You and all your little inadequacies."
Her words cut through him like daggers, giving voice and venom to his own doubts. "I'm sorry. Ahiru, whatever is going on, I'll do anything—anything to fix this."
"Will you? Even if I asked you to die?"
"If I had to, I would."
"What if I asked you to kill me?"
A coldness washed over Fakir, chilling him to the bone. "No." He shook his head vehemently, his grip unconsciously tightening on her wrist. "No. It would never come to that. I won't—" he swallowed, the mere thought of having to just hurt her was abhorrent to him, much less kill her, "it fixes nothing, if you're not with me on the other side of this."
Ahiru laughed in cruel delight. "I suppose you'll write me a story where you're the hero—so I can be killed by a bunch of crows, just like what you did to your parents, right?"
Blood drained from his face at the barb. This kind of casual callousness was so completely removed from his Ahiru. It was like someone or something else had stepped into her body and was controlling her, making poisonous words drip from her lips. She had to be in there though, he just needed to snap her out of it. Gripping her shoulders, Fakir searched her eyes for some sort of sign that Ahiru was still in there.
She stared back at him impassively. Her eyes had become the dark, forbidding color of the night sky on a starless night, reflecting no emotion at all. It terrified him. Swallowing back tears, he pulled her tightly to his chest and buried his face in her hair. "What did he do to you?"
With a humorless laugh, Ahiru responded, "What you were too much of a coward to do." She pulled back from him and held her arms out wide. "I'm a girl again. I'm finally free of that godforsaken pond you imprisoned me in while everyone forgot I ever existed. Whatever. As long as everyone else is happy, right?" She began taking slow steps backwards. "As long as Mytho gets his heart back. As long as Rue gets her prince. As long as Fakir can be a hero without any risk. As long as the townspeople don't suffer. Everyone gets their happy ending. Everyone keeps their free will. What does Ahiru get? To sacrifice everything. I'm done being the one making the sacrifices, I think it's time everyone else sacrifices for me."
Propelling herself back with a leap, a dark light from her equally dark pendant enveloped her. When she landed a few meters away from Fakir, she was standing in fourth position as Princess Tutu. However, instead of the soft pink, her tutu was pitch black. Dark raven wings had replaced her gossamer yellow ones and the bouncy blue cords that descended from them were replaced with dark, thorny vines—as were the chain around her neck and bracelets around her wrists. Upon her head sat an onyx crown and at her breastbone hung a dark perversion of her pendant. Gone were the frosted glass wings of the ruby swan, instead jagged sheets of smoky quartz jutted out from an obsidian cygnus—the colors all morphed varying shades of black.
Princess Tutu smirked coquettishly at him. "You wanted to know if I was okay—well, I'm great. Never better." With a wave of her hand, black feathers began to spin around her. "Goldkrone won't ever forget me again." The whirlwind of feathers engulfed her and she vanished once again.
Every time he thought back on it, Fakir couldn't stop questioning his every move. If he hadn't been so shellshocked, if he had said something different, done something different, would Ahiru be with him right now? Would he be able to snap her out of whatever Drosselmeyer had done to her? Had she become a marionette?
Fakir covered his face with his arm. How was he going to save her? He kept thinking about what the Princess Tutu in his dream had said. Sever her strings. He hadn't noticed any strings attached to her, but perhaps now that she was presenting as Princess Tutu, herself, it would be different? If only he had thought to draw his sword when she had appeared before him. Somehow, though, drawing his sword on her in this state… it felt wrong. Like he was accepting that she was the opposition. Would she realize he was trying to save her?
He groaned and wiped his hand down his face. He had asked himself these same questions thousands of times in the past couple days. Too many 'what if's and unknown factors to ever be able to answer them, but he couldn't seem to stop. Pushing himself out of bed, Fakir got his stuff together and went to take a shower. With a little luck, some hot water would ease the ache in his chest.
After showering and towel drying his short hair, Fakir dressed, strapping his belt with attached scabbard and sword around his waist. Since Ahiru first disappeared—about a week ago—the sword had become his constant companion. A comfort of sorts. No matter how mundane the task, he had it with him. Every moment he spent separated from it was a moment he risked missing his chance to save Ahiru. It was a constant reminder that he had the power to save her.
Heading downstairs, he stopped in the kitchen to grab a roll—the stress of everything going on with Ahiru was starting to reflect in Charon's physicality, and making sure his father saw him eat something was the easiest way for Fakir to relieve some of the strain on him. Charon sat dead-eyed at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee.
"I'm going to the pond," Fakir announced, mostly to see Charon respond to something.
Charon looked up at Fakir before nodding and looking back down at the coffee. "No new sightings?" he asked.
Fakir shook his head. "No."
"She'll show up." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Fakir.
Though Fakir did not share all the details of his encounter with Ahiru, Charon still took the news pretty hard. Charon had accepted the fact that she was Princess Tutu and that story magic was, well, a thing, but he has been struggling to come to terms with how it was affecting Ahiru. To cope, Charon started making multiple loaves of bread every day to make sure Ahiru would have some fresh bread waiting for her when she came home. He had even put a hold on all work in the smithy—something Charon had never done, even when he was sick. Fakir worried that the stress was going to negatively impact his health.
"I know." Fakir finally agreed.
Charon reached out and squeezed Fakir's hand. "You're going to save her, Fakir. I know you will."
Fakir gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
Charon nodded to himself before letting go. "Don't forget to drink some water. You'll get dehydrated."
"Alright." Fakir obediently drank a glass of water before setting out.
Since Fakir had encountered Ahiru, they, for the most part, ceased their three-man search party efforts. Autor was convinced they had to follow story logic now, and has been trying to figure out if they can use that to predict where she would show up next. Fakir agreed with Autor—to some extent. He didn't think it would be possible to predict when she would show, but rather he felt if this were a sequel, Drosselmeyer would mirror Mytho's time trying to collect hearts for the Raven. She would show up; he just had to keep an eye out for signs.
So, he's been patrolling—looking for signs that something nefarious was happening. And his preferred route started at the pond. He stood at the end of the dock, staring over the water, and hoping she would appear before him again.
A while ago, Ahiru had told him she thought of the pond as a cage. He hadn't actually put much thought into that confession of hers. In fact, he was probably distracted by the fact he had kissed her immediately after she said it and then ran away from her like the coward he was. Hearing her say it again, even if she had been under Drosselmeyer's control, it made him wish he had really taken what she said into consideration. Those two years after they ended the story, she spent them here on this pond. Fakir had come to visit her as much as he could—at least, that's what he told himself. The truth was, it wasn't always easy to visit her. Every day that passed and he didn't write a story, he felt more guilty. And that guilt just grew and grew as time went on. Some days, he just couldn't bear to face her and he'd only stop by for a few minutes. Other days, well, he had a life outside of Ahiru. Admittedly, not much of one, but he worked at the smithy and helped Charon with chores around the house. At the time, it didn't feel like such a big deal to stop by with some food for a few minutes before leaving. He promised he'd be by her side forever, and he did go to see her every day, but he should've been more sensitive to the fact that all she had to look forward to was the time he spent with her. He could have and should have done more.
Fakir couldn't help but wonder what truths laid hidden, buried beneath her words. Had she grown to resent all of them for achieving happy endings while she just went back to being a duck? Did she feel slighted that Goldkrone town had forgotten her? Did she think him a coward who failed her in every way? If he had a second chance, he would write her a story the right way immediately. He would've been more careful in how he finished off the previous story.
Sighing, Fakir ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the pond. It was time for him to start his patrol. As he turned, a strange, peculiarly gyrating black cloud in the distance caught his eye. No, not a cloud. It was a murmuration of dark birds, circling above something in the distance.
This is what he had been looking for. Though it wasn't unheard of, such a large number of birds gathering in Goldkrone was extremely rare—and reminiscent of when Kraehe was up to something. With a precautionary hand on the pommel of his sword, Fakir headed in the direction of the murmuration.
Quickly, it became obvious that the birds were swarming around the Academy campus, which was strangely still, aside from the constant thrum from the birds. Not wanting to draw alarm, Fakir refrained from pulling out his sword, but kept his hand on it at ready just in case.
As Fakir stepped out of the side entrance door, his eye caught the figure of a lone student standing eerily motionless in the middle of the walkway. Cautiously, Fakir approached them. "Hey, what—"
As soon as he started speaking, the student, a girl, jerked to attention and, with choppy, unnatural movements, faced him. She smiled broadly at him, her unnerving grin not quite meeting her eyes. "Hello! We've been waiting for you!"
"You've been waiting for me?" Fakir repeated, his brow furrowed.
Her head twitched, rotating her chin forty degrees twice, rapidly, before she spoke again, "Of course! You're the guest of honor!" Not once did her smile falter.
"What the hell?" Fakir muttered under his breath.
"Not hell," she tittered, "Goldkrone Academy. My, you are silly Herr Fakir." She suddenly let out three oddly over enunciated and shriek-ish laughs, "Ha! Ha Ha!" Her head twitched again before she stared at him silently for a moment, her ever-present unnatural smile still beaming. "Well, you can follow me now!"
The girl's head turned before the rest of her body moved to follow it in its stilted manner. Fakir watched the girl, bewildered, when her head suddenly jerked to look back at him in two separate movements. "Come along, she doesn't like waiting."
If Fakir had doubts that Ahiru—or, more specifically Drosselmeyer—was behind this, he certainly didn't now. Grimacing at the abnormality of how the girl was acting and moving, Fakir began to follow her. Warily, he eyed the flock of birds circling above. All manner of birds—from nutcrackers to grouses to wallcreepers to gulls—were present, seeming to watch him; even ones that normally wouldn't flock together. As he watched the birds above, Fakir saw it: the telltale shimmer of strings extending from infinity into limbs of the girl he was following.
"You have to sever her strings!" Tutu's words rang through his mind as his eyes traced the thin strands. Unsheathing his sword, Fakir rushed at the girl before him and, taking a great leap, deftly sliced through them. Immediately, the girl collapsed to the ground.
By the time Fakir was by her side, she was looking around, confused. "Wh-what happened?"
Fakir kneeled down next to her. "Are you alright?"
"I think so…" she squeaked. "Why are all these birds here? What's going on?"
Fakir stood, offering her a hand to help her up. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I suggest you head back to the dorms."
"R-right." The girl eyed the sword around his waist before looking around at the multitude of birds again. "Yeah, I think I'll do that." She turned to leave before looking back at him. "Uh… be… careful? I guess?" She glanced up at the birds above one last time and scurried off.
Fakir watched her go for a minute to be sure nothing happened before he turned towards the Academy. Somewhere here on campus was Princess Tutu. Fakir wasn't going to miss his chance this time. He had been able to cut through the strings on that girl, he would cut through Ahiru's strings as well.
"I will save you, Ahiru." Fakir spoke resolutely before walking in the direction the girl had been heading before he freed her.
The deeper he wandered into campus, the more Fakir noticed some sort of pressure in the atmosphere and the sky began to grow darker, warning of an approaching storm. When he finally reached the edge of the courtyard, he froze. It appeared every student, teacher, and staff member was gathered here, doing some strange macabre dance as the birds surged in concert above. Jerkily, all of them twirled and swirled in an oddly beautiful tandem. In the center was the swan fountain, guarded by two stock-still figures, upon which Princess Tutu was perched sidesaddle. Her legs were elegantly slanted down the side, while she delicately curved her arm up around the swan's neck. With a bored expression, she watched the dancers perform while mechanically swishing the fingers of her free hand at them.
Princess Tutu's eyes found him and, smirking, she stopped moving her fingers; simultaneously, everyone stopped moving with an almost superhuman suddenness. A moment later, all at once, their heads jerked toward him. "If it isn't my guest of honor! Late as always, it seems. I was getting tired of waiting." Tucking her legs under her, she drew herself up to en pointe. "Perhaps if you hadn't gotten rid of my little usher you would've found your way here sooner."
Fakir watched in alarm as she flicked her wrist and every person in the courtyard began dancing towards him, moving in the same unnatural manner the first girl he ran into had. "Well, no matter! You're here now, so it's finally time for the main event!"
Running his tongue along the bottoms of his top teeth, Fakir tried to calculate what the best plan of action was. With the jerky movements of marionettes, each person set about their ghastly, twisted dance while Tutu watched on in cruel amusement. Above them, strings twinkled like stars in the suddenly storm-dark sky.
"Aren't they beautiful?" Princess Tutu asked, cocking her head to the side. "When my free will was taken from me, I became a graceless, insipid duck. I made sure that each of my little dolls dance like prima ballerinas no matter how unskilled they were." She affectionately patted the head of one of two students that still stood motionless, guarding the fountain. "I think that was awfully kind of me, don't you?"
"Don't you think this is going too far?" Fakir called out, still debating his next move.
"Too far? They owe me their lives and they don't even remember it. If anything, I've showed them mercy." Princess Tutu jutted her chin upwards, daring him to defy her.
With a jolt, Fakir realized their stilted dance had finally led them into his proximity, much too close for comfort. "Shit," he cursed. It seemed his time for strategizing was over. He glanced around the encroaching crowd, looking for a way through.
"What's wrong, Fakir? Don't you like the little performance I planned for you?" Tutu simpered maliciously at him from behind a poised hand.
"Tutu!" Fakir growled and leapt forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc to slash through as many strings as possible. Multiple bodies fell to the ground in his wake.
Princess Tutu pouted mockingly, "Aw, and after all the work I did on the casting and choreography! First my usher and now this? Didn't your parents teach you not to steal others' things?"
The marionettes of students and staff closed in on him as Fakir spun and darted through the crowd, cutting every string he could as he went. The false grins plastered on all of their faces unnerved Fakir as he twisted past them. Were they aware of everything that was happening? At least the girl from earlier didn't seem to remember. He prayed, for their sakes, they didn't remember. Just having his hand controlled by Drosselmeyer had felt like a huge violation to Fakir, he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have one's whole body controlled.
A black lace and feather fan materialized in Princess Tutu's hand, and, with a flick of her wrist, it shot open. With a sharp motion, black feathers shot out into the crowd and Fakir realized in alarm that the feathers were turning into strings and attaching themselves to those he had just freed. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"
Fakir ducked past a pair of teachers who had reached out to grab at him. He hadn't thought it would be that easy, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. Still, he rushed past, slashing at strings as he went, hoping he could cut them faster than she could make them. This narrowed things down: he needed to get to Princess Tutu.
Tutu watched his fast approach with mild interest. With a chuckle she closed her fan and held her arms out. Suddenly, the two guards on either side of her jerked their arms out toward her and gripped her arms before lowering her off of the bench to the ground. "Tell me Fakir, what happens when you can't cut their strings fast enough? Are you going to cut through them?"
The marionettes around him seemed to close in on him even faster at her words, forcing him to pull his sword in tighter to his body to avoid accidentally cutting anyone. Perhaps in the past Fakir might've cut down anyone who got in his way, but that was a long time ago. Despite her actions while possessed by whatever Drosselmeyer had done, Fakir knew Ahiru would never forgive him if he hurt someone, much less in her name.
Lightning flashed in the distance, soon followed by the low rumble of thunder. A storm was fast approaching and yet the birds continued to circle overhead. The unnaturalness of everything—the birds, the sudden storm, the ever-beaming faces of the people-made-puppets—left an uneasy feeling coiling in Fakir's gut.
Stumbling over some of his pursuers, Fakir felt something smack into his face and he fell backwards. "Ach!" he winced at the impact. Just as quickly as he fell, he was forced to curl into a ball and dodge the legs and feet of the crowd around him. He growled as he rolled to his feet and pressed onwards. Vaguely, he became aware of the dull throbbing in his lip and the foreign wetness dripping down his chin. Having no time to assess the state of his busted lip, Fakir pressed onwards, swinging his sword through the scant openings he could find. In the distance he could see Tutu with her guards, watching him from behind her fan. Above her he could finally see them, the gleams of light catching strings. Hope bloomed in his chest as he continued forward with a new fervor.
"Gah!" Fakir exclaimed as he reeled to the side when someone's elbow struck him in the temple. Bright stars swarmed his vision as he tried to gain his bearings, only to be shoved forwards before a pair of strong arms encircled him. Another shout of pain escaped him as the arms crushed him too tightly.
Shaking the dots from his vision, Fakir hooked his foot behind that of his attacker and kicked his leg forward with as much force as he could muster while simultaneously throwing the rest of his weight backwards. They both went crashing to the ground, but Fakir was able to escape their hold when the shock of the fall loosened their grip. Groaning in pain, Fakir sprung to his feet and past the grabbing hands of someone else. He had gotten turned around in the tussle, but was able to quickly regain his lost ground by flipping over and vaulting off of a particularly tall man, his sword shredding through a multitude of strings has he sailed through the air above them.
Landing with a trained expertise, Fakir forced his way onwards with this new momentum, his eyes trained solely on the flashes above Princess Tutu. Finally, he had reached a break in the crowd, exiting the throng just a few meters away from her. His escape from the assemblage seemed to flip some switch and all the marionettes ceased their pursuit and returned to their grotesque dance. With a determined roar, he charged ahead and, hoisting his sword over his head, sprung forward with all his might, slicing through the strings above her and her guards.
The two guards on either side of her fell to the ground and Princess Tutu looked down at them impassively. "This is not how you get the girl, Fakir. Surely you're above schoolyard bullying and breaking toys to convey your feelings by now."
Fakir stared at her in a broken disbelief. He had cut the strings, had none of them been hers? He looked at the sky above her and not a single glint shone above her. "No…"
"Oh!" Tutu widened her eyes and pressed her closed fan to her chin in mock surprise. "Don't tell me you thought I was a toy, too?" She laughed. "You would like that, wouldn't you? Your own little plaything to do whatever you want with? Well, that is also not how you get the girl, Fakir," she eyed him with a playful smirk, "you filthy rake."
His head fell forward as he processed everything up until now. He had been so sure. They had been above her. Were they really only the guards' strings? How was he going to free her? The Princess Tutu in his dream had told him he just needed to cut her strings. "Ahiru…" he breathed, "please… I know you're in there."
Tutu approached him, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Gently pressing her fan into his chest, she reached up and traced her other hand along his jawline. "Oh, Fakir…" Her eyes fell to his lips, and she ran her index finger along his bottom lip, stopping when he winced as she drew near his injury. "Of course I am. Don't you see? This is me." Lightning struck, casting stark shadows across her face.
Leaning up, she pressed her lips against his and drew him close to her. He gasped in pain at the sudden pressure on his busted lip and pulled back as thunder rolled through the air.
"What?" Tutu asked with an amused look. Fakir's blood was smeared across her lips and the corner of her mouth. Her tongue delicately traced her top lip, tasting the blood there. "Don't you love me?" With the back of her hand, she wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.
"You know I do," Fakir murmured defeatedly.
Tutu rolled her eyes. "Apparently not that much. You told me you were prepared to kill anyone for Mytho, but all you did was wind someone at best for me." She tapped her fan to her cheek thoughtfully. "Though I suppose the poor fools whose strings you cut are probably pretty bruised up from being trampled over."
Fakir suddenly became aware of the cries of terror under the rest of the cacophony of sounds. Whirling around, Fakir saw multiple figures curled up on the ground crying as those dancing around them continued on as if nothing where in their way. Others begged identified loved ones to stop while others yet struggled to fight their way out.
"You did your best, I suppose," Princess Tutu mused from beside him. "You always do. Your best just leaves a lot to be desired."
Lightning struck again, lighting the macabre scene while Fakir stared, horrified, at the disaster before him with no idea how to resolve it. Thunder vibrated in the air, indicating the storm was growing closer.
Tutu sighed dramatically, though it was clear she was enjoying this, "I suppose I can do you this one little favor and erase their memories. I'd hate my little dolls to be traumatized, after all. They don't dance as well once they've been traumatized."
Flicking her fan open with a swift movement, Princess Tutu pirouetted, flinging dark feathers out into the crowd again. Every cowering figure jerked up to their feet and returned to their bizarre dance. Was that it? Could he not save anyone here, much less Ahiru? He was better than the average man with a sword, but not even he could cut everyone's strings all at once. He was just one person with a sword.
"You could write a story," Ahiru's voice reminded him.
"What?" Fakir looked at Tutu who was watching her dancing puppets with ruthless amusement. No, it wasn't this Princess Tutu, with her uncharacteristic diction and mocking tone. Ahiru had said this to him before, a long time ago, back when they were still returning Mytho's heart.
He was just one person with a sword, but he was also a writer. His hand shot out suddenly, yanking a dark feather from Tutu's fan. She loudly objected but he paid her no mind and pressed the tip of the feather against his lip. Fakir hissed in pain, but it was no use; the blood had congealed too much for him be able to use it as ink. Gripping his sword, he sliced it across his forearm.
"What are you—" Tutu exclaimed in surprise, but he continued to ignore her.
Dropping to his knees, he began scrawling words into the concrete with his blood as the ink.
Suddenly, lighting struck nearby and the resulting crack of thunder was so loud the entire ground shook with the vibration of it. Above, the birds let out shrill shrieks of fear and shot through the courtyard in search of safety, severing every string as they went. The populace of Goldkrone Academy collapsed to the ground just as rain began pouring down upon them.
Princess Tutu frowned as her marionettes—though they were her marionettes no longer—slowly got up and walked mindlessly away. "So you'll write them a story…"
Fakir looked at her, his heart breaking when he realized she was crying. "Ahiru," he stood and reached for her, but she took a step back.
"But you couldn't write one for me?" she laughed in such a way that it sounded more like a sob. "And you said you loved me."
"I do!" Fakir insisted desperately. "Ahiru, please. Just come back home with me, and we'll figure this out together. We can save you and I'll make sure you get your happily ever after. Okay?"
She chuckled mirthlessly at the irony. "There is no 'happily' waiting for me, Fakir. And there certainly isn't an 'ever after'. You have no idea—but you will. And just know, you forced my hand."
"What does tha—" with a flourish, Tutu disappeared in a flash of black light, "—Ahiru!" Fakir shouted and grabbed in vain at the air where she once was and fell to his knees. "Damn it!" he screamed as he slammed his fist against the pavement. "Damn it, Ahiru…" he muttered sadly to himself.
He stayed like that, sitting piteously on the ground, and watched as the rain washed away the last of his blood-written words.
… the rain came and washed away their injuries and memories, freeing them from the horrors of the day. Each of them walked home where they would clean up and go to bed so they could wake up anew.
The knight turned to Princess Tutu
He'd failed her again. Why hadn't he been able to finish the story? She was right there, and he still couldn't find the words to save her.
The very rain he summoned fell down on him in cold sheets, chilling him to the bone. "You couldn't write one for me?" Her words haunted him. He wondered if she knew he had just failed to do so again.
Fakir stared up at the ceiling of his room, trying his best not to think, but failing miserably. The rain had yet to lighten up, though the lightning and thunder had pretty much stopped before he even had energy to force himself to go home from the Academy. Once he had arrived home, Charon fussed over him and his bleeding lip and arm, eventually stitching them up himself when Fakir refused to go to the hospital. And though Fakir had showered only a handful of hours earlier that morning, he ended up taking a hot bath at Charon's insistence. Despite this, and the fact that Fakir was now lying in bed covered by two thick blankets, he still felt the penetrative coldness of the rain.
Or, perhaps, it was the guilt gnawing away at him in the face of another failure. In a way, they were sort of the same thing considering Fakir had managed to write that rain into existence, but failed to use that same ability to save Ahiru.
Groaning, Fakir sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Sitting around doing nothing was filling him with a nervous energy, but he wasn't sure what else he could possibly do. It seemed Ahiru was going to show up when she wanted, and he would just have to wait. And when she did show back up… what was he supposed to do?
She had seemed so broken at the end; it killed him that he couldn't comfort her. Yet again, it all came down to the fact that he had failed her.
Looking up, his eye caught on the poorly wrapped package on his desk—the present Ahiru had given him on his birthday before she disappeared. She had been so nervous and kept stammering in her adorable way. He smiled sadly as he remembered the way she squeezed her eyes shut as she handed it to him and then immediately begged him not to open it.
Curiosity getting the better him—and in a desperate need for a pick-me-up—Fakir got up, swiping his blankets to the side, and grabbed the brown paper package before sitting back down. He had been working around the present sitting on his desk for days, forgetting it in the wake of Ahiru's absence. It was wrapped poorly enough he could tell it was a book of some sort; the paper was crinkled and the corner was ripped enough he could see the edges and some paper peeking out. Carefully, he untied the twine and ripped the paper open, revealing a soft, dark mahogany leather-bound book. As he pulled the paper away, a card fell out.
Fakir smiled as he picked it up; it occurred to him he had never seen her handwriting before. When he turned it over and saw what it said, his heart stopped.
For the story I know you'll someday write
He stared at her—admittedly chicken scratch—handwritten note bitterly. She had gotten him a journal? What kind of cruel mockery was this? Tossing the note aside, he flipped through the pages to confirm it was, indeed, a blank journal. She had gotten him something to write in when he couldn't even write for her.
The frustration and misery welled up and he exploded in anger, throwing the book across the room. Immediately, he regretted it. Ahiru had given this to him, so no matter how painfully ironic it was, it was also his greatest treasure. Getting up, Fakir walked to the fallen book laying dejectedly on the floor and bent over to pick it up.
The impact apparently had jostled something loose, as when Fakir picked it up, something slid out of it. At first he feared he had damaged the journal, but upon closer examination it was an envelope that had slipped out. After quickly assessing that he hadn't damaged the journal, he set it to the side and flipped the envelope in his hands.
His name was scrawled out on the backside in the same uneven text from the earlier note. He remembered how anxious she had been giving him the present, and there was nothing about the journal that should've made her feel that way—thus, he deduced that this was the source of her nervousness. Flipping the envelope back over, he opened it and pulled out the contents. It was a bit hard to make out in places—carrots inserting words here and there, words and phrases scratched out, some words misspelled—but as he got deeper his face blanched.
Dear Fakir,
I'm not much of a writer, not like you, but I wanted to tell the truth so maybe you have an easier time after I'm gone. And more than anything, after all this, I hope you never give up writing. I made my choices and I don't regret them, I just hope you can forgive me. I won't blame you if you don't, though.
When Droslemeier (what a dumb name, its to hard to spell) offered me a deal, I was very lonely. And sad. It wasn't your fault. I think its hard to go from being an animal to a human to an animal again. I think I experienced to much to ever be happy as a duck again. So when he said I could be a girl and never have to be a duck again… there's not much he could of tacked on to that offer that would of made me not take it. And he told me that people were suffering and I could help them again… I really despiratly wanted to be useful again. I want you to understand that that it was nothing you did, I made the choice because I wanted to.
This is hard. I said I'd do it, so here it goes. There was more to the deal than just me being Princess Tutu again. I lied to you and hid it from you on por purpose because I didn't want to worry you. Like I said, there wasn't much that would of stopped me. The deal… … … gosh I didn't think it would be so hard to write it, y'know. But I promised. So. The deal I made with — The truth is. I'm not going to be here in a year. The truth is I won't be alive after this year ends. That was the part I kept from you.
So, that is to say. My time is almost up. I really treasure the time we spent together. I don't think you know how much it means to me. I'm sorry for being selfish. I just wanted to spend time together, y'know, actually spend it together. And I'm glad I got to do that. It was better to have spent this one year happy with you then be mizerble for many. Besides, who knows how long I'd have as a duck. Duck lifespands are not as long as human lifespands. And I didn't want to trap you being mizerble spending all that time with a boring duck. You paid your debt now I guess I have to pay mine. I am sorry for hurting you and Charon. You can tell him I went to go live with my parents—who knows, maybe they're waiting for me in the afterlife. That would be nice, to know them, I think.
Anyway. I just wanted to let you know so you don't blame yourself. And to apologize. And remind you you won't become Dorssellmayier, so don't give up writing. Your a good person, so I know you'll use your powers for good and make a diffrence. And it brings you joy and I just want you to be happy. You will have a good life. Good things are waiting for you in the future, defenately.
I'm sorry,
Ahiru
Fakir stared blankly at the page in his hands, his thumb rubbing over one of the tearstain blotches smudging the ink towards the bottom. He read it over and over again, trying to force his brain to process what it read. What she wrote, he couldn't be reading it right. He couldn't be reading it right, because what she claimed was unthinkable.
The truth is I won't be alive after this year ends.
I won't be alive after this year ends.
I won't be alive
Surely, surely, Ahiru did not make a deal with Drosselmeyer in which she would die after a year. His body felt numb, or, rather, it felt like he was not in his body. Like he was watching his body sitting there, holding this letter with its horrible contents that couldn't be true. His chest grew tight, and his arms and legs tingled in such a manner he felt like his bones would explode from his skin. This was wrong; what she said wasn't right. Because if it was… then he would have to live without her. Everything they'd done up until now, it would've been for nothing. She'd be gone—forever. Even if he could never have her heart, he couldn't bear not seeing her ever again. All this because he couldn't write her a story—and to top it all off she insisted he would write good stories, when he failed to write the most important one. How could she still believe in him even after he failed her so miserably?
Shellshocked, his eyes fell to the tearstain he kept running his thumb over and tears of his own spilled over. She cried when she wrote this. She cried—why? Was she scared? Was she mourning the future she'd never have? Was she feeling guilty? Did it matter? How often over the past year did Ahiru cry alone, knowing her impending doom? How many times did she almost break down and tell him? Why wouldn't she let him in? He so desperately wished she would've confided in him so he could help her carry the burden—help her find a way out.
He traced his index finger over the dark scratches crossing out the phrase "Please don't forget me" and his heart broke all over again. Did she not even feel like she could ask this of him? The simple task of remembering her—she may as well ask him to remember to breathe.
This… corrupted Princess Tutu also mentioned being forgotten. Fakir had no idea that it had affected her so much. Ahiru had never once complained about everyone forgetting the story, and, as a result, her as well. But reading this letter, and taking into consideration what Tutu had said, it clearly had profoundly affected her. Really, how could it not? She had been so alone for so long with only him visiting her, and he had started making those visits as brief as possible.
How could he begrudge her signing away her life to Drosselmeyer when she was suffering? When he, himself, did nothing to help ease that suffering?
Ahiru had always kept a bright smile on her face for everyone else, shouldering their burdens and sacrificing her happiness for their sake. Even in the face of adversity, she became the embodiment of hope for everyone else. She defied Drosselmeyer's will and accepted her fate to ensure everyone else's happiness.
If she was going to lose hope now, Fakir would simply have to have enough hope for both of them—just as she had for him in the past. No matter what deal she made with Drosselmeyer, Fakir would make sure that it did not come to pass.
"May those who accept their fate be granted happiness; may those who defy it be granted glory." That is what Edel used to tell him. Even the Oak Tree had said something similar. They were wrong this time. There was no happiness to be had in accepting that Ahiru would die. Glory be damned, if Ahiru's fate was death, then he had no choice but to defy it for happiness—and defy it he would.
Tutu had told him how to save Ahiru, and though he had failed to do so thus far, Fakir would not give up until he got it right.
He would save her, no matter what. Fakir folded her note back up and pressed his forehead to it, willing her to feel his resolve wherever she was. He would be her hope.
Autor hummed thoughtfully as he sipped from his mug of coffee. He was sitting on the living room couch in Charon's home, across from Fakir—who was sitting in a cushioned chair with his head in his hands. On the coffee table between them was the map they had been using in their search—though, based on Fakir's recent discoveries, it was unlikely they would need to use it moving forward. Still, Autor liked to take notes based on what Fakir said, just in case. Autor preferred to be overprepared.
They had been discussing Fakir's recent run-in with Ahiru, though Autor had to agree in Fakir's assessment that this did not sound like the Ahiru he knew. A perversion of the Princess Tutu role was interesting in theory, but Autor decided it wasn't as fun to see people he knew being roped into his favorite tragedies.
"Back when she first reappeared," Fakir began, "she mentioned something about never being forgotten again."
"That sounds like a threat."
"I'm sure it is, but that's not the point. Based on…" Fakir paused, reluctant to mention the private letter he had received from Ahiru, "… well, something Ahiru had said before, I think part of her motivation is fear of being forgotten, especially with what happened in the story."
Autor placed his cup of coffee down. "That makes sense, no one wants to be forgotten—it's a kind of second death."
Fakir blanched at the mention of death; he hadn't told Autor about Ahiru's letter to him, nor did he have any intention to. "Second? Why would you say that? Ahiru isn't dead."
"No…" Autor drawled out, giving him an odd look. "Of course not. But most people tend to 'be forgotten' after they die. There's when you die, then there's when you're forgotten. It's really its own tragedy that Ahiru saved Goldkrone town and no one even remembers her. It wouldn't be surprising if she developed a fixation on that, but why are you bringing it up?"
"I don't know." Fakir ran a hand through his hair. "I keep thinking it might help us figure out her next move—weren't you the one who wanted to use literary devices to predict where she would show up?"
Raising an eyebrow, Autor leaned over to look at the map. "Sure. So you saw her at the Academy where she turned every single person on campus into a marionette. Clearly, she wants to go big, which makes sense if her goal is to make sure she's remembered—"
"Wait." Holding up a finger, Fakir gestured for a moment of silence while her pondered over that word, "remember"—something was off about his interaction with Princess Tutu yesterday.
Autor sighed and leaned back again, crossing his arms.
"Wait, but she erased their memories…" Fakir furrowed his brow, confused.
"What?"
"Yesterday. I had gotten some of them out of her control, but with everything going on, they ended up getting injured. Princess Tutu said she'd erase their memories so they weren't traumatized." Frowning, he continued, "If she wanted them to remember her, why would she erase their memories?"
Autor shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't want to be remembered as villain. Or maybe that's Ahiru shining through. I think it's just as likely that she isn't acting in her own interest, but in Drosselmeyer's. We don't have enough information to figure out what it is." Autor tapped a finger on his forearm. "Either way, I think we'd be best served by trying to figure out what Drosselmeyer wants out of this."
"A tragedy." Fakir deadpanned.
"Well obviously." Autor rolled his eyes. "But how are Princess Tutu's actions acting as a means to his end?"
Fakir looked off to the side. He'd already made up his mind that he wouldn't share Ahiru's predicament, but it certainly would explain a lot. Likely, Ahiru dying was the crown jewel of this tragedy; at this point everything until then is just the icing on the cake for him. Forcing Ahiru to do cruel things she would never do… Fakir wouldn't be surprised if she was aware of everything that was happening and was just unable to stop it. That kind of torture was exactly Drosselmeyer's style—though Fakir hoped he was wrong and she was blissfully unaware.
Perhaps the better question was 'how does Drosselmeyer intend on killing Ahiru?' For one thing, it would be easier to prevent her death if he knew how Drosselmeyer intended to go about it, but, some deaths were certainly more tragic than others—what horrible circumstance was Drosselmeyer intending to foist Ahiru into to achieve his goal?
Slam!
The front door burst open, drawing Fakir out of his thoughts. Mere seconds later, Charon stumbled into the living room.
"The market!" Charon gasped, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. Charon, having gone through an exorbitant amount of flour making bread all day, had gone to the market to get more just half an hour ago. "It's—" he coughed and Fakir jumped to his feet, fearing a repeat of the last time Charon got sick.
"Breathe," Fakir urged, resting one hand on Charon's back and the other on his upper arm in case he needed to support him. "Just take a minute."
Charon shook his head, "No time," he gasped. Leaning his weight on the back of the nearest chair, he inhaled deeply. "It's the Weihnachtsmärkt." He gave himself a second before continuing. "They've been setting up the past couple days, but just now… something weird…" He looked up at Fakir from his hunched position. "It's like what you described yesterday. Two men had gotten into an argument over what screws they were using to put together a stall and all of a sudden they're just… grinning and they're moving all unnaturally like. Then, before I knew it, people left and right are doing the same. I booked it out of there to come tell you."
Fakir frowned. It definitely sounded like his experience. So Princess Tutu was targeting the Weihnachtsmärkt now? It seemed she was aiming for a larger group this time. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Did you see her?"
"No." Charon shook his head. "No, I didn't see Ahiru."
Fakir worked his jaw. That didn't mean she wasn't there. He collected his sword and scabbard from beside the chair he had been sitting on and started putting it on. "Alright, I'm going to check it out."
"I'll go with you," Autor announced, standing.
Fakir spared him a quick glance before returning his attention to his belt. "Fine, just don't get in my way."
"Wait, Fakir." Charon placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm going, too. I can't just sit here and do nothing while Ahiru is suffering."
Fakir wanted to tell both of them they'd just get in the way—he didn't need to be worrying about Charon's health and safety while trying to get through to Ahiru, or Autor's for that matter—but, he knew what it felt like to feel useless all too well. Sighing, he nodded. "Okay, but you'll need something sharp."
"What?" Charon looked alarmed. "You're not going to hurt her, are you?"
"No! Of course not!" Fakir tried not to be too annoyed at the obvious relief on his father's face. "It's for cutting the strings. When she controls people, they have strings above them attached to their limbs. If you cut through the strings, it frees them from her control."
Autor frowned, clearly not fond of the idea of having to do something more physical. Rubbing his chin he asked, "Didn't you stop her before by writing?"
Fakir acquiesced, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. They likely didn't have enough time for him to fully explain how specific circumstances and probability had factored into the story he wrote last time, but he could try to give a basic explanation. "I can only do so much with my powers. If there didn't happen to be a ton of birds there already, I wouldn't have been able to pull off what I did. There's no guarantee I'll be able to do it again."
"Still," Autor insisted, "you should take some parchment and a quill."
"Where am I going to carry a quill? Or ink, for that matter."
"Well, I have an inkhorn."
"Of course you do." Fakir groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead. "Even if you have it here, that doesn't change my ability to carry a quill with me."
"Fine, fine! You can take a fountain pen. It won't be authentic, but I suppose it'll do in a pinch." Autor scrounged some paper and a pen out the bag he brought with him.
Rolling his eyes, Fakir took the paper and folded it up before shoving both in his back pocket. "Are you good now? We really don't have time for this."
"You'll be thanking me when you end up needing it. At least then you won't have to slice your arm open."
Fakir ignored him and led them to the smithy where Charon grabbed one of the many swords Fakir made for practice while preparing to make the one currently tied around his waist. Autor picked up another, though found himself far too awkward and unfamiliar with swords and instead grabbed a pair of shears.
"We'll have to assess the situation when we get there, but I think the best line of action would be for you two to work around the edges, cutting people free and getting them out of there while I distract her." Fakir explained while they rushed to the town center where the Weihnachtsmärkt was being set up.
Being midafternoon, the sun had already set, painting the sky a murky gray-blue. As of yet, though it was dark, it did not look like any storms were rolling in. It had felt like the last storm had been tied to her appearance, but perhaps after he used it to his advantage another one wouldn't appear. Fakir wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
When the three of them reached the town center, the macabre dance of marionette-people had already begun. Through the aisles of mostly put-to-together stalls, people were dancing in jerky, unnatural movements. This time, however, flames flickered around them as some of the stalls caught fire.
"There wasn't a fire when I left," Charon uttered as he stared at the scene. Something about the flames flickering and casting shadows as they danced made it feel more terrifying.
Hunkering down behind a building, Fakir pointed to the sky. "See those flashes of lights that look like straight lines? It's a little bit hard with the smoke, but—"
"Ahiru's doing this?" Autor stared slack-jawed at the horrifying scene before them. Though Fakir had described what had happened at Goldkrone Academy, seeing it in person was an entirely different experience. People he knew, whether in passing, or acquaintanceship, were mindlessly grinning ear-to-ear and moving mechanically—limbs moving individually instead of in synchronization, heads turning before bodies, sudden repetitive stilted movements in rapid succession as if they were glitching—it seemed something out of a nightmare.
"Yes." Fakir clenched his jaw. "If you want to help them, you need to pay attention. Do you see the lights?"
Autor and Charon both nodded.
"Those are the strings. After you cut them, they'll fall to the ground so be careful. In my experience, they won't remember much after they're freed so just tell them we're taking care of the fire and they need to get out of here. At least the fire should make that part easy."
"What are you going to do about this afterwards? After all of this, people are going to want to know what happened here." Autor asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I'll deal with that later. Memories are easy enough to fix." Fakir would know; a simple story after everything was said and done and he'd be able to quickly remove any memories of whatever happens here.
Charon placed a hand on Fakir's shoulder. "We'll get as many people as we can out of here. You focus on bringing Ahiru home."
Fakir inhaled deeply and nodded before exhaling. "Alright, let's go."
Snaking his way around the stalls, Fakir stole glances towards the center of the marked off area for the Weihnachtsmärkt. As of yet, he had not seen any sign of Princess Tutu, but there was no doubt she was here somewhere.
Deftly, Fakir sliced through the strings of anyone he came across, staying just long enough to send them on their way. At least on the outer edges of the market the crowd was pretty thin, making it easy to cull their numbers; however, Fakir could see it got quite crowded towards the middle.
A stall one row over blazed brighter than the rest, seeming to be the source of the fire that was spreading to other stalls. Looking closer, the materials that managed to survive the flames appeared to be for candle making. Fakir bit his tongue as he inspected the damage. All the stalls were built of wood and many of the handmade products locked and stored within completed stalls were also highly flammable. Luckily the fire seemed to be contained to one row thus far, but none of the people under Tutu's control seemed to acknowledge the fire's presence and he worried they would catch fire.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Fakir headed straight for the middle. Charon and Autor had already begun working along either side of the market, so he needed to draw and hold her attention quickly so they could get as many people out of there as possible.
"Tutu! I know this is your doing, show yourself!" he shouted as he slid over a stall into the center area.
Suddenly, the lights of the carousel flashed on before him and the jaunty tune of Tchaikovsky's March of the Toy Soldiers trumpeted out as it slowly began to spin. The rising and falling mounts had been fashioned to look like different animals—mostly horses, but there were also deer and bears, as well as smaller animals depicted on a larger scale suitable to sit upon such as mice and bunnies.
"As timely as ever, Fakir!" Princess Tutu's voice called out. The ostinato fanfare of the song, normally played by trumpets, repeated the second time as the carousel rotated enough to reveal her perched upon a great horned owl mount.
Princess Tutu sat with her legs crossed at the ankle with one hand elegantly wrapped around the pole and the other resting atop the owl's head, her neck elegantly stretched to the side as she simpered down at him from the raised platform.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up." With all her usual grace she somehow managed to draw herself up into third position on the owl's back. "What do you think of my little show this time? You were such a critic last time, so I thought you might appreciate something a little… bigger."
As if to accentuate her point, the marionettes performed grand jeté around him. The carousel slowed to a stop as she reached the center facing him, the music dying down in a jarring, mechanical wail.
"Let them go, Tutu!" he commanded. "You know this is wrong—people are going to get hurt!"
Princess Tutu mock pouted at him. "Aww, I made a completely new performance for you, and you're still not happy? What does a girl need to do to impress you? I'll admit the fire wasn't my doing, but I thought it added a nice dramatic flair."
"Stop all of this and let them go!"
"Well that's boring. Besides, they need to pay the price."
Fakir looked over at the dancers performing their stilted choreography. "Is that really what you want? To take everyone's free will from them and make them dance?"
Sinking into a plié, Princess Tutu leapt from the owl, landing with a delicate poise a couple meters away from him. The carousel resumed its rotation, the music blaring back to life from a broken screech until it returned to its natural cadence and tone. "No, actually." She tutted. "I want to make them suffer. And if achieving that goal means I get to take away their free will for however long it takes, then all the better."
"What?"
Her lips curled with a sinister delight. "Look at them, Fakir," she gestured to a group of older, burly men performing pas de bourrée couru, their booted feet fluttering along the pavement as they took tiny little steps en pointe. "Do you think their bodies can handle moving the way they are? How do you think their bodies will feel after I make them dance like that for hours? Days? How long do you think it will take before their bodies fail them?" She leaned back, cambré derrière, and indicated the growing fire which had somehow managed to spread to the carousel. "How long before the fire consumes them? All the while, they have no choice but to grin and bear it."
Fakir's eyebrows knit, aghast. He watched the men a moment longer before shaking his head and looking back at her. "I know that's not what you want."
"Oh, because you know me so well," she purred.
"I know that you didn't want anyone from the Academy to be scared." Fakir took a tentative step towards her. "That's why you erased their memories."
The ever-present cocky grin on her lips faltered—brief though it was, it was long enough for Fakir to catch it. "How cute that you have so much faith in me. You make it so easy for me, being so willing to be manipulated." She closed the distance between them and tapped a finger to his chest. "My puppets can't dance if they aren't my puppets, after all."
Fakir stole a fleeting glance towards the sky obscured by smoke, watching as thin lines of light snapped and disappeared. Good. Charon and Autor were still at it. He just needed to keep her attention on him.
"The thing is, I do know you that well. I know no matter how unhappy you are, you don't want anyone else to suffer. I know that you always put others before yourself. And…" frowning, he brushed some stray bangs away from her eyes "I know that you carry your burdens alone and in silence, because you hate making others worry." He pursed his lips in an attempt to hold back tears as he cupped her cheek with his hand. Even when she was like this, he couldn't bear the thought of her being hurt.
Princess Tutu stared at him with raised eyebrows but didn't say anything.
"Ahiru," Fakir choked out her name, "why didn't you tell me? We could've worked together to find a way around Drosselmeyer's bullshit. You didn't have to suffer alone."
Lip trembling, Tutu gripped the fabric of his shirt. "Oh, Fakir! You don't know scared I've been! I just couldn't bear the thought of disappointing you!" She dropped her chin to her chest, her shoulders shaking. The first notes of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy rang out from the carousel, its delicate, playful tone creating a poignant juxtaposition.
Fakir rested his hands on her shoulders, intending to embrace her. However, it quickly became apparent she wasn't crying, but, rather, laughing.
She threw her head back, cackling with amusement. The fire cast grotesque shadows up her face. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" Behind her the fire had spread along the platform of the carousel and most of the animals were now engulfed in flames.
In the midst of their dance, the marionettes all pointed at him, joining in on her laughter.
She raised the pitch of her voice, "Oh, Fakir, you're so strong! And I'm so weak and helpless! Please protect me!" Pressing the back of her hand to her eyelids, she tried to reign her laughter in. "Oh, you're too rich! So, you found out about my deal with Drosselmeyer, did you?"
"Ahiru—"
"So you already know it's too late. 'May those who accept their fate be granted happiness,' right?" She scoffed. "It was you who told me to go back to being who I really am, right? So tell me. Was I defying fate? Accepting it? Because as far as I can tell I didn't get happiness or glory."
Smiling, she looked out over her dancing marionettes before looking back at Fakir. "I never much cared for glory. So, I decided to find happiness for myself. What greater happiness is there than getting revenge?"
"Ahiru, let them go."
"Oh, please!" She laughed and, pirouetting away from him, joined the dance of her puppets. "Haven't we done this enough already?" She called as danced among them. "You're like a broken record. You can write as many little stories as you want. I'll keep coming back and I'll keep doing this, with more and more people each time. It won't be long before I have all of Goldkrone dancing." Jerkily, one of the men lifted her above his head. Leaning back so her body faced him; Tutu crossed her arms at her waist, miming death. "And I'll keep doing it until I die."
"If you let them go, you can take me instead. I'm the one who hurt you the most, right?" He couldn't let Ahiru continue to hurt the townspeople, and while he did care for their wellbeing, he mostly cared for hers. If Ahiru knew what she was doing, she'd be devastated to know she was hurting so many people. At least this would be easier.
Tutu looked at him in surprise. Suddenly all of her puppets froze in place. "Oh?" Mechanically, the man holding her lowered her to the ground in three movements. She rushed to him in demi pointe. Once she reached him, she leaned forward, bending at the middle to peer up at him curiously. "You'd offer yourself that easily?"
"You know I'd do anything for you."
She simpered at him and procured her fan. "You're so cute when you're desperate." Standing straight she cocked her head to the side. "I'd love to see you beg." As if anticipating his response, the music slowed, distorting in a metallic manner, before dying altogether—the fire finally overcoming the mechanics.
Clenching his jaw, Fakir lowered himself to one knee, earning a delighted peal of laughter.
"How precious!" Flicking her fan open, she swung her arm past his head, her torso following the movement so that her face was inches from his. "Did you think I couldn't take control of you at any moment?" She traced a line along the hollow of his cheekbone. "Didn't you realize that this is your punishment?"
She smiled coyly at him and leaned forward until their lips were almost touching before changing trajectory and, with a gracefully stretched neck, whispered into his ear, "Don't think I haven't figured out your little plot. Did you think I wouldn't feel each string being severed if you tried to distract me with your pretty face?"
Straightening up, she relished in his slack-jawed expression. "If this isn't enough for you, then fine. I'm happy to oblige. Allow me to introduce to you my two newest principal dancers."
Behind her, two figures lowered, broad grins plastered on their faces. Fakir watched in horror as his father and Autor began dancing a pas de deux, backlit by the blazing carousel—the macabre faces of the animals, once shaped into looks of glee, twisted into terror by the flames, giving the whole scene a ghastly air.
"Ahiru, you—" Fakir shook his head in horrified shock. "Let them go, please."
"I was right! Begging is a very attractive look on you," she chuckled. "Go on, beg me some more."
He stood, his eyes flashing in anger.
"Oh?" She narrowed her eyes in interest. "Are you done being diplomatic now? Are you going to attack me just like the old days?" Flaring her fan back out, she held it at ready in front of her. Swiftly, he approached her and ripped her fan from her hand and threw it into a fire burning nearby.
Her mouth fell open in indignation and she closed it with an eyeroll. "Well, that's not very fun. I thought you said you could kill me if you had to."
"That was before I fell in love you." Fakir gripped her upper arms. "And because I love you, I know this isn't you. This is because of Drosselmeyer and those god damn fragments." He spun her around and forced her to look at Charon and Autor as they mechanically performed pas de chat. "Look at them; you would never do this. As annoying as he is, Autor is your friend and you care about him. He's only here and involved in all of this because of you. Because he cares about you."
"You think—"
Fakir continued, ignoring her, "And Charon. You were inconsolable when he collapsed. Can you really bear to see him strain himself this way, knowing he will break quicker than anyone else?"
"That's the goal, isn't it?" Though her words were harsh, Tutu's face twisted with some unreadable emotion.
"Nothing that you've said is really how you feel. No matter what Drosselmeyer made you say, I know you, and you can't stand doing this to anyone, let alone Charon and Autor. What are you going to do when Charon's body gives out? Or when his lungs fill with smoke and he stops breathing? Are you going to continue using his lifeless body as a puppet?"
"I—" she grimaced, a war of emotions passing over her face.
"Go on and tell me you don't care. Tell me." He crushed her to his chest with one arm and used the other to force her to look up at him. "Your words mean nothing when your feelings are written across your face."
Her eyes widened ever so slightly before she wrenched her head from his grasp, her body shaking. "That's not… true," she ground out, the waver in her voice belying her words.
He pulled her tighter to him, burying his face in her hair. "Let everyone go. I know you don't want to hurt anyone, so I won't let you. And I won't let you die. We'll beat him—you and I."
"Fa… kir…" she pulled herself away from him, clutching at her chest. As she staggered, the lights catching on the strings above everyone flashed, and at once everyone fell to the ground. "I can't…"
Stormy blue eyes sought his briefly, before she winced, curling into herself with one hand clutching her chest and the other clutching her head.
"Ahiru!" Fakir shouted as he reached for her, but once again blackness engulfed her and she disappeared, leaving nothing but confusion, pain, and heartbreak in her wake.
Squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip, Fakir allowed himself a moment of grief before he rushed over to Charon and Autor.
"Fakir?" Autor groaned as he picked himself off the ground. "What happened? The last thing I remember is leaving the smithy…" He glanced around at the chaos surrounding them. "Are we at the Weihnachtsmärkt? Is Ahiru here?"
Fakir shook his head as he helped Charon up. "She left."
"Was she okay?" Charon asked as he rubbed his hip to try and alleviate the pain from his impact with the ground.
Eyes downcast, Fakir responded, "I don't know."
"How did this fire start? Was it Ahiru? What are we going to do about it?" Autor nervously eyed the growing conflagration beside them.
Fakir glanced over at the carousel then scanned the rest of the fire spreading amongst the stalls before looking around at the mass of people groaning in pain, panic, and bewilderment. Pursing his lips, he retrieved the pen and folded up parchment from his back pocket and spread it out on a stall that the fire hadn't spread to yet. Quickly, he spun a story about an accidental fire that started when a lit candle at the candlemaker's stall was knocked over unnoticed. It had spread to the other stalls before claiming the carousel, but was eventually contained and put out. Though there were a few injuries, thankfully there was nothing that wouldn't be easily healed with a good night's rest. Everyone went home and slept peacefully that night, remembering only that the fire had been safely taken care of and knowing that though there was a great deal of damage, the Weihnachtsmärkt would still open on time with some hard work and some helpful volunteers.
As soon as he finished penning the tale, people began leaving, their faces clouded over. A rumble sounded in the sky, the only precursor to the sudden downpour of rain. Numbly, Fakir watched as the rain slowly weakened the flames of the blaze. 'Rain again, huh.' Fakir hadn't specified rain was what would put out the fire, but he figured it was fitting considering the storm raging inside him.
Fakir watched the rain battle the fire a moment longer before looking back towards Autor and Charon, only to find their backs amongst the crowd of everyone going home as he had written. Melancholily, he watched their retreat until they were lost in the throng. He hadn't intendent to also affect them with his powers. Something about it made him feel incredibly lonely. Was this how Ahiru had felt?
Standing alone in the rain, Fakir watched as raindrops extinguished the fire.
Sitting in Ahiru's bedroom, Fakir watched the downpour that formed at his behest. Like the last storm he wrote into existence, this one showed no signs of letting up soon. That was fine, he decided, as it matched how he felt inside.
Too long had he failed to fix everything going on with Ahiru. How could he have been so blind to everything she was suffering through? The memory of her pained face as she struggled against whatever darkness was poisoning her before she disappeared just hours ago haunted him. Yet again he failed to save her. Yet again he failed to bring her home.
Was this what was killing her? She'd just continue to be this dark Princess Tutu, torturing herself by hurting others, until she died? If she had only a year, how much time did she actually have left? A week? Two weeks? For the first time, he found himself wishing he was a more sentimental person, someone who would've marked such a special day as her reappearing in his life on a calendar. All he remembered was that it was had been around this time.
He bit his cheek as he contemplated every interaction he had with her recently. He kept coming back to what the Princess Tutu in his dream had said: he needed to sever her strings. How he was supposed to do that when it appeared she didn't have any strings was beyond him. He tried to before she got corrupted and he tried again yesterday, to no avail. There wasn't anything attached to her the way the strings of those she turned into marionettes were—at least not anything tangible. He hadn't even tried today, he had been so distracted with the fire going on, but he was certain the results wouldn't change, so what strings did Tutu mean?
The pressure to get everything resolved as quickly as possible was suffocating. It was like there was a constant drumming in the back of his mind, reminding him that if he didn't save her soon, she would likely be gone forever.
Die.
She was going to die.
Fakir felt numb every time his mind repeated that phrase. It didn't feel real, that her cheerful, smiling face could be gone from his life forever.
For not the first time, nor certainly not the last, Fakir asked himself, 'why didn't I just write the damn story two years ago?' She told him not to blame himself, that she understood that he was scared to abuse his powers or hurt her, but how could he not blame himself? How did he ignore the aching hole in his heart where she belonged every second she was a duck? Why didn't he give her the happiness she so desired, no, deserved?
If he had written her a story after they defeated the raven and destroyed Drosselmeyer's machine, she wouldn't have had to turn to Drosselmeyer in the first place. She wouldn't have had to collect the fragments that were messing with her emotions. She wouldn't have to wear that stupid pendant which—
Fakir froze. The pendant. The pendant had strings. The pendant was what was causing all the problems, wasn't it? He watched as it slowly turned black as she collected fragments over the course of the year, and she was this dark version of herself. Before, when they tried to take it off it had hurt her, but that could've been Drosselmeyer's failsafe to keep it on her.
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Fakir weighed the pros and cons. Truly, he had no idea what all the possible outcomes of cutting the pendant off of her were—there was no way to know. It could be following the same conventions as last time, or it could be something completely new. Last time, when he cut her pendant off of her, she turned back into a duck. Drosselmeyer had promised that she would never turn into a duck again, so there was always a chance that taking it off would turn her back into a duck. But, unlike last time, any attempt to take off the pendant caused her physical pain. So, it was just as likely something entirely new would happen. She had no strings, though, none except for the string keeping that pendant around her neck. Fakir wasn't certain, but now that he had the thought, it wouldn't leave him alone. He needed to cut off her pendant.
A new determination settled inside him. Next time he saw Princess Tutu, he would cut that pendant off. And once he severed Drosselmeyer's influence over her, they were going to figure out how to get rid of him once and for all, together.
Fakir sat at the kitchen table, eating a simple breakfast of bread and cheese. For the first time in possibly forever, Fakir had woken up before Charon. He imagined the story magic was keeping him asleep longer than usual, hopefully repairing any injuries. Fakir hadn't decided yet if he should tell Autor and Charon what had happened. Was it better they remain ignorant that they had been influenced by his powers? Was that his biggest fear? Or was he more afraid they'd then remember that he had failed in his mission to save Ahiru?
It was probably stupid, but Fakir hated failing and, more so, hated others knowing he had failed. Especially in Charon's eyes, Fakir wanted to be perfect. Never wavering, never failing, the perfect child someone would be proud to be the parent of. It was a childish desire, but one he held, nonetheless. The worst part was that he even cared at all about his little perfection complex when what he had failed at was saving Ahiru. He hadn't just gotten a bad mark on a technical, he had failed to save the girl he loved.
Frowning, Fakir begrudgingly finished his bread and debated if he should check in on Charon, when Charon himself entered the kitchen.
"I guess I slept in late today." Charon rubbed the back of his head as he went to grab some bread for himself. "I'm just glad they got that fire taken care of at the Weihnachtsmärkt and no one got hurt."
Fakir smiled sadly to himself; at least he knew the story had its intended effect.
Charon sighed as he sat down. "They'll need help if they want to get it open on time, and it's such a help for the small businesses and local artisans around town, I feel like I should go volunteer, but…" he exhaled mournfully, "I don't know if I'll be of any help while I'm so worried about Ahiru." Charon looked up suddenly, "You don't think she was involved with the fire somehow, do you? They said no one got hurt, but—since she's been missing—"
"She wasn't," Fakir lied, reassuringly. Perhaps it was better not to tell Charon what had actually happened.
Looking relieved, Charon nodded. "Right, it wouldn't make sense—just because Ahiru's missing doesn't mean no one would notice her if she were in a fire. I've just worried myself into a fool."
"It's alright." Fakir stood from the table and put his dishes in the sink. "I'm going on patrol again."
"Alright, you be safe."
Nodding, Fakir fitted his belt and scabbard around his waist before heading out. As per usual, he headed straight to the pond.
Thanks, probably, to the rain from the past two days, a light fog obscured the pond surface. The low cloud hovered gently above the water, some of it spilling out onto the shore. It was cold enough the grass crunched with frost underfoot and Fakir could see his breath. They were lucky the streets hadn't iced over—he hoped they didn't need the rain again, as he wasn't sure the weather would permit anything warmer than hail at this point.
Standing on the dock and staring out across the fog-covered water, Fakir toyed with the pommel of his sword. He had made this sword for the purpose of saving Ahiru before he even knew just how much she needed saving—before he even knew the extent to which he was culpable. Fakir just hoped he wasn't too late to right his wrongs; every moment that ticked by his anxiety shot up. Not knowing when her last moments were supposed to be made it so much worse.
"I knew you'd be here."
Fakir turned at the husky yet all-too-familiar voice. "Tutu…"
She stood at the end of the dock, her right hand raised delicately to her chin as she assessed him calculatingly. "You've become something of a thorn in my side, Fakir. Perhaps it's time you and I had a little… heart to heart." She smiled.
Unsheathing his sword, Fakir turned fully towards her, "Alright."
Princess Tutu raised an eyebrow suggestively at his action. "Well, that's more like it." Her fan materialized in her hand. "I do like it when you're rough."
"I'm not going to fight you." Though his grip tightened on the hilt, he held his arms out in such a way to indicate that he meant no harm.
"Why would you go and get me all excited, then?" She frowned, crossing her arms.
Fakir took a step towards her. "I just want to talk."
"Normally, people don't pull out their swords when they 'just want to talk'." She rolled her eyes skyward and sighed. "I'm sure this isn't just some kind of trick to get me to lower my defenses. Sure, why don't you come closer."
He stopped. "I'd never want to hurt you."
"Oh." She tapped her fan to chin thoughtfully. "I must've imagined that time you slammed me into a wall. Or the time you tried to gut me with a shard of glass. Or the last time you tried to attack me with a sword. Or the time you gripped my arms trying to restrain me—I had bruises of your fingerprints."
Fakir looked abashed. "I meant… since then," he muttered the last part shamefully. If only she knew how much his actions back then haunted him.
"Or," this time she took the step closer, "how about the time you wrote the end of a story and made everyone forgot I ever existed?"
Fakir's blood ran cold. This had been his biggest secret—the one thing he couldn't even admit to himself: it was his fault that everyone forgot Ahiru. It was his words that took away their memories. "Ahiru, I—" he struggled to find the words to convey how much he regretted the choices he made in that story.
"You thought that was going to stay your little secret forever, huh? Joke's on you—I've known the whole time." She took another step towards him. "So, what was it? Were you embarrassed of me? Was it just easier to hide me away? Did you want the glory all to yourself?"
"I never meant for it to work out like that," Fakir insisted. "I was still learning and it was just supposed to erase the confusion of everything that happened during the story. I never thought—"
"So I was just a casualty? An innocent bystander?" She laughed. "And you have the audacity to claim you love me—that you want to protect me."
"I know!" Fakir bit his lip; he couldn't let himself break down now. He had to stay strong. "I know I have no right—but I do. I love you. And I will protect you."
Leaving himself no room for second thought, he closed the distance between them and, cupping the back of her head with his free hand, he drew her up to him and kissed her. He poured his every feeling into it, hoping it could reach her heart through the darkness she'd been poisoned with. Before he could doubt himself, he raised his sword and slashed the necklace from around her throat.
Princess Tutu pulled back from him with a stuttering, pained gasp, a dismayed look on her face before all the color drained from her eyes and she collapsed in his arms, wearing the same black shirt and skirt she had been when she first reappeared.
"Ahiru?!" Fakir pressed his ear to her mouth, sighing in relief when he heard and felt a soft exhale of breath. "Oh god." He clutched her to him and sank to his knees. He could finally bring her home; she would be okay. Now he just needed to figure out how to defeat Drosselmeyer. "I'm so sorry. I know I failed you, but I won't this time." He buried his face in her hair. He'd never let her go again.
Pocketing the pendant that had fallen nearby, Fakir wrapped his coat around her body and picked her up. It was time to go home.
Fakir kneeled at Ahiru's bedside, holding her hand in his. She had been asleep for three days. Honestly, there had been times he thought she was dead. He had trouble finding any kind of pulse, but he could feel her breathing steadily. Her unknown deadline was creeping up, and Fakir constantly felt like his heart was in his throat.
"Please, Ahiru…" Fakir murmured as he combed his fingers through her bangs. "Just open your eyes."
He'd barely left her side since he brought her home. Whatever food Charon forced him to eat, he ate in her bedroom. He read her stories during the day. And at night he slept in her bed, holding her tight to him.
It reminded him of when she first turned back into a girl a year ago—which only increased his anxiety. Now that she was physically here, all he could think about was her looming death. Was this it? Was she just going to sleep and never wake up? Had cutting her necklace off killed her instead of saved her?
Fakir squeezed her hand gently as he looked at the spine of the fairy tale he had just finished reading her. How simple things are in fairy tales. You go through hardship and then everything can be fixed with true love's kiss.
He pondered this for a moment, an idea forming in his mind. He hadn't kissed her since she collapsed… could it be…?
He felt stupid for even considering the notion, but now that it was there… And it wouldn't harm anything to try…
Biting his lip, Fakir shifted up onto the bed and leaned over her. Taking a moment to stroke her cheek, he lowered his lips to hers, trying not to become too hopeful. He lingered for just a moment before he pulled back and examined her face.
He waited, studying her eyelids and freckles, praying something would happen, but nothing did. His traitorous heart deflated and he pulled back, burying his face in his hands. He was an idiot for letting himself hope anything would happen—this wasn't a fairy tale.
Sighing, Fakir looked back down at Ahiru and met empty aquamarine eyes.
Startled, Fakir turned towards her. "Ahiru?!"
She blinked up at him, her face showing no emotion. "Who are you?"
A/N: We're going all the way! Just two chapters left after this one, can you believe it?! I'm getting all emotional haha. When I write when I'm super tired, I become more susceptible to wanting to put dumb shit in the dialogue. Just in this chapter I was tempted with, "That wasn't very cash money of you" and, "Run me through with your sword, daddy" and I resisted, so, frankly, you're welcome.
Joking aside, I really appreciate all of you for reading! Thank you!
Because of the limited formatting available on ffn, there are parts of the letter that are removed which had been sections Ahiru had crossed out. It doesn't affect the overall meaning of the letter (and this version probably reads more clearly), but Fakir references one line "Please don't forget me." which she had crossed out. If you really want to read the whole letter, you can find it in the ao3 cross-post.
