Princess Tutu fic, scene one
Jun. 4th, 2006 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sakon76Because Sandy is a genius and pointed out to me that "just because it's a tragic ending doesn't mean it's not a good ending," and thus changed the shape of this story.
Fakir knew the power of fairy tales. He was, after all, a character from one. He was the Knight reborn to defend his Prince again. He was also the descendant of Drosselmeyer, with the power of creation running in his veins. And he was a dancer through whom tragedy and joy alike were given form.
Fakir knew that not all stories ended happily. At best, happiness was tempered by the defeat of the villian, the sacrifice of the innocent, and the lack of closure for the secondary characters.
For himself, he was not bothered.
For Ahiru, he was.
He didn’t begrudge Rue and Mytho their love. He’d written each of their feelings as he and Ahiru had struggled to bring Drosselmeyer’s cursed tale to an end, and knew how deeply they ran. But there was a small part of him that felt that it wasn’t fair that the prince had chosen the other princess, that Princess Tutu had struggled so hard, fought so long to restore the prince’s shattered heart, and not kept any of it.
Mytho loved everyone. But he’d loved Rue more than he’d loved Tutu, and Tutu had suffered the consequences of that choice. He was the noble Prince; of course he had chosen the princess who needed rescuing rather than the one who had so many times rescued him.
After that final fight, after Mytho and Rue had flown away in their golden swan-pulled carriage, Fakir had taken Tutu to the lake just outside of the town. There’d been a derelict cottage on the shore; he found out who owned the building and purchased it with the money he’d had in trust from his parents. That summer and spring he spent his free time fixing it up, sawing and hammering and painting and digging a garden in the back. Ahiru spent her days peacefully swimming on the lake. In the evenings, when it cooled down, Fakir danced or practiced his sword work. He occasionally caught her looking at him, an expression in her eyes that reminded him of how she’d been as a girl, watching the advanced dancers with awe and delight. After a while he stopped feeling guilty, realizing it wasn’t his fault that he was human and she was not.
At night, Fakir read aloud to her from the books he checked out of the school library, stories of science and myth. Both of their favorites were the fairy tales, though, no matter how sad some made them feel.
He couldn’t read stories anymore and not know that the characters might have been real, the way he was, or Mytho, or Rue, or Ahiru. That their pain might have been real. That it was only chance if they hadn’t been written by a storyteller as powerful as Drosselmeyer. Or himself.
Somehow the duck who had been a girl who had been a princess from a story had become closer to Fakir than anyone, even Mytho, ever had. “After all,” Fakir mused one fall night when fog rose off the lake and Ahiru rested in his lap, looking at the illustration in their book, “we both loved him and protected him.” Surely that had set the bond between them.
It was almost the end of winter, however, before Fakir made a realization, and he felt foolish for not having seen it before. “Ahiru,” he said, “I think you’re becoming a swan.”
“Kwa?!” she replied and rushed over to the mirror, examining herself first on one side then the other.
Fakir laughed softly and knelt behind her, watching. “It suits you,” he commented. But his laughter died when she turned around and looked at him with wide, serious eyes.
“Kwa kwakwa kwa kwa?” she questioned, and he understood her. It was the power of the writing. If he listened just right, he could hear the universe described, and understand the voice of Ahiru’s heart. “Fakir, is this another story?” she asked.
“It’s not mine,” he replied. “I wouldn’t write you without your permission.”
“Kwa kwa kwa kwa?” she asked. “Then whose is it?”
Fakir knew the power of fairy tales. He was, after all, a character from one. He was the Knight reborn to defend his Prince again. He was also the descendant of Drosselmeyer, with the power of creation running in his veins. And he was a dancer through whom tragedy and joy alike were given form.
Fakir knew that not all stories ended happily. At best, happiness was tempered by the defeat of the villian, the sacrifice of the innocent, and the lack of closure for the secondary characters.
For himself, he was not bothered.
For Ahiru, he was.
He didn’t begrudge Rue and Mytho their love. He’d written each of their feelings as he and Ahiru had struggled to bring Drosselmeyer’s cursed tale to an end, and knew how deeply they ran. But there was a small part of him that felt that it wasn’t fair that the prince had chosen the other princess, that Princess Tutu had struggled so hard, fought so long to restore the prince’s shattered heart, and not kept any of it.
Mytho loved everyone. But he’d loved Rue more than he’d loved Tutu, and Tutu had suffered the consequences of that choice. He was the noble Prince; of course he had chosen the princess who needed rescuing rather than the one who had so many times rescued him.
After that final fight, after Mytho and Rue had flown away in their golden swan-pulled carriage, Fakir had taken Tutu to the lake just outside of the town. There’d been a derelict cottage on the shore; he found out who owned the building and purchased it with the money he’d had in trust from his parents. That summer and spring he spent his free time fixing it up, sawing and hammering and painting and digging a garden in the back. Ahiru spent her days peacefully swimming on the lake. In the evenings, when it cooled down, Fakir danced or practiced his sword work. He occasionally caught her looking at him, an expression in her eyes that reminded him of how she’d been as a girl, watching the advanced dancers with awe and delight. After a while he stopped feeling guilty, realizing it wasn’t his fault that he was human and she was not.
At night, Fakir read aloud to her from the books he checked out of the school library, stories of science and myth. Both of their favorites were the fairy tales, though, no matter how sad some made them feel.
He couldn’t read stories anymore and not know that the characters might have been real, the way he was, or Mytho, or Rue, or Ahiru. That their pain might have been real. That it was only chance if they hadn’t been written by a storyteller as powerful as Drosselmeyer. Or himself.
Somehow the duck who had been a girl who had been a princess from a story had become closer to Fakir than anyone, even Mytho, ever had. “After all,” Fakir mused one fall night when fog rose off the lake and Ahiru rested in his lap, looking at the illustration in their book, “we both loved him and protected him.” Surely that had set the bond between them.
It was almost the end of winter, however, before Fakir made a realization, and he felt foolish for not having seen it before. “Ahiru,” he said, “I think you’re becoming a swan.”
“Kwa?!” she replied and rushed over to the mirror, examining herself first on one side then the other.
Fakir laughed softly and knelt behind her, watching. “It suits you,” he commented. But his laughter died when she turned around and looked at him with wide, serious eyes.
“Kwa kwakwa kwa kwa?” she questioned, and he understood her. It was the power of the writing. If he listened just right, he could hear the universe described, and understand the voice of Ahiru’s heart. “Fakir, is this another story?” she asked.
“It’s not mine,” he replied. “I wouldn’t write you without your permission.”
“Kwa kwa kwa kwa?” she asked. “Then whose is it?”
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no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 06:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 07:26 pm (UTC)If I take your meaning correctly, the new author writes even more tragic stories than Drosselmeyer's. Beware.
Lovely stuff, keep it up.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-06 01:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-06 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-08 03:20 am (UTC)