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[rd][fic][Princess Tutu] Enchantment 2/2
Argh, LJ made me cut this into two pieces....
There weren’t too many people who believed in fairy tales anymore, Ahiru thought as she carried a bowl of roasted potatoes to the table, but Charon was surely among them. Fakir’s foster father had been the first to recognize the marks of Drosselmeyer’s story, after all, splashed across Fakir’s body. He’d been the one whose family had kept the treasure of Lohengrin’s sword until one day the knight should return to wield the blade again. He’d realized who the nameless white-haired youth without a heartbeat had to be, and sheltered him along with Fakir. And he’d never had trouble accepting that the duckling (who later turned out to be a swan) his foster son spent time with had once been the girl Ahiru and also the Princess known as Tutu.
His ability to accept what “rational” people surely thought of as impossible was just one more reason Ahiru really liked Charon, she thought, smiling as she set the bowl down and surveyed the table. It was covered with bread and cheeses, meat for those who ate such things, winter greens and vegetables that were largely the bounty of Fakir’s garden, a turret of soup, pats of butter, jugs of milk and buttermilk and water and wine, jellied fruits and bitter pickles. To her it looked like a feast fit for a prince. Who was coming from the shop, discussing the art of swordsmithing with Charon as Fakir and Rue came in from the kitchen, the former drying his hands on a towel.
At least, Ahiru thought bemusedly, Fakir was letting her and Rue help cook these days instead of muttering to himself about helpless, hopeless women.
They seated themselves around the table, Charon saying a brief grace before they started eating, dishes being passed, cups filled, the clinking of silverware and clattering of plates never once managing to cover the conversation. Ahiru avoided the meat platter as a matter of course; other than fish, she’d discovered, she didn’t have a taste for cooked meat of any type.
“This is very good,” Mytho said, indicating a dish of dressed beans.
“Rue made it,” Fakir said blandly. Rue, Ahiru noted, was blushing slightly. “She’s becoming a very good cook,” he continued.
“It’s because you’re a good teacher,” Rue returned the compliment.
“Everything always tastes so good here,” Mytho mused. “Better than at the palace. Fakir, if you ever want a job as a chef....”
“Thank you but no,” Fakir answered. “It’s not that the food that tastes better, anyway; it’s the company.”
“Eating with family is always better than eating in state,” Charon agreed.
Mytho smiled softly. “Agreed.”
Ahiru looked around the table. “I never had a family before.”
Fakir’s fingers found their way into her hair. “Orphan duckling," he teased.
“You’re an orphan too!” she retorted.
“That makes three of us,” Mytho said, the curve of his mouth holding laughter.
“Four,” Charon said with a laugh out loud.
“I suppose my parents may be alive somewhere,” Rue mused. “If I even knew who they were.”
“You don’t know your parents?” Charon asked.
Rue shook her head. “The Raven stole me when I was a baby.”
Charon had the strangest look on his face.
“Charon?” Fakir asked. “Is something wrong?”
The smith looked at the table, then his eyes rose again and he examined Fakir’s face, then Rue’s. “It seems unlikely, but then we do live among those kind of tales.”
“Charon?” Mytho asked.
“Fakir,” Charon asked, “do you remember what your parents told you about Claire?”
Fakir’s eyes widened and his complexion paled. “Impossible,” he breathed.
“Fakir?” Ahiru put her hand on his sleeve, but his eyes were fast on Rue now.
“Who’s... Claire?” Rue asked, sounding almost afraid to hear the answer.
“My sister,” Fakir answered slowly. “I don’t even remember her; she was stolen away by ravens when she was just a baby. I wasn’t even two years old then. But my parents told me about her.”
Rue was pale and stricken now too. “...Me?” she whispered.
“I don’t know why I didn’t see it before,” Charon said quietly. Rue looked at him. “You look like Maria,” he explained. “Your mother. Though Fakir has more of her coloring.”
Rue was trembling now. “I can’t... I can’t be...” she whispered, then suddenly pushed back from the table and fled.
A tumble of voices called after her: “Rue-chan!” “Rue!” “Rue-chan!” Only Fakir was silent, staring after her as she left the room.
Ahiru hesitated. She wanted to go after Rue, but obviously so did Mytho, and he was Rue’s fiancé. Mytho looked at her, though. “You go,” he said. “I think you’ll be better for her right now than I am. I’ll speak with her later.”
Ahiru nodded and ran after the other girl, braid tip smacking against the back of her legs with each stride.
*
Fakir stared at the doorframe long after both girls had left the building.
“Fakir?” Charon asked, sounding worried.
“She can’t be... Rue can’t be Claire, can she?” he asked, looking up at his foster father. “Everyone said she was dead.”
Charon shook his head. “We never found a body.”
“Fakir,” Mytho said, “if anyone can find out what happened, it’s you.”
Fakir looked wordlessly at his Prince, then stood to go into the room that had been his while he’d lived with Charon. He’d never taken all of his possessions to the lakeshore cottage, and it was one of these that he brought back down the stairs now. It was a small portrait of himself and his parents that had been made by a traveling painter some months before their deaths. And looking at it, he thought he could see his mother in Rue. Their faces were similar, as was their hair. He’d inherited his mother’s Spanish complexion, though, while Rue was pale. But Rue’s fingers were long, making him remember his father’s as Johann had played the violin in the evenings.
It was entirely possible that Rue was his sister.
Sitting back at the table, Fakir pushed aside his plate to make room for the paper, ink, and quill he’d brought down as well. Charon and Mytho watched as he studied the portrait for a moment, then set it down and closed his eyes, listening for the voice of the silence.
The clockwork gears moving behind the universe became clear to Fakir’s sight.
“Once upon a time,” he began, dipping his pen in the inkwell and writing out the beginning of the story of what had happened to his sister, “not so very long ago, there was a happy couple with two children they loved very much. The older was a son, and the younger a baby daughter....”
*
“Rue-chan!” Ahiru called out again, having long since lost Rue’s trail and slowed to a walk. She tried to think of where Rue might have run to, but she lacked Fakir’s ability to just stare into space for a moment and have the shape of the story and know where the heroine had gone. So she had to guess and hunt and when Ahiru finally found Rue, the older girl was sitting beneath a tree on the bank of the river, not too far from where Princess Tutu had once returned Mytho’s curiosity to him.
“Rue-chan,” Ahiru said softly and sat down beside her friend, spreading the cloak she’d grabbed over both of their shoulders. There was silence for a minute, then she asked, “Why don’t you want to be Fakir’s sister? I mean, he can be mean and annoying sometimes, and when he gets lost in his writing he doesn’t even know you’re there, but really, he’s not that bad.”
“It’s... not that,” Rue said softly, gazing at the sluggish water, her crossed arms resting on drawn-up knees. “It’s... every time I think I know who I am, it changes. I was Kraehe, then I was Rue, then I was Kraehe again, then I wasn’t even the Raven’s daughter, then I was Mytho’s princess... Ahiru, who am I?” The eyes that looked at Ahiru were clouded and lost. “If I’m Fakir’s sister, it means I have to change again.”
“I know what it’s like to be confused,” Ahiru said quietly, plucking a blade of dried grass and twirling it between two fingers. “There were some days when I’d wake up and didn’t know if I was Tutu, or Ahiru, or really just a duck... and then later, when I did know, I ended up not even being a duck after all but turning into a swan. And now I’m a girl again.” She laughed a little, remembering the misery of uncertainty. “But I’m the same person whether I’m a bird or a girl, aren’t I? It’s the same with you, Rue-chan.”
Rue looked back at the water. “Am I?” she asked softly. “Sometimes I think I’m just a doll, dancing whatever role I’m thrust into.”
“No, you’re not,” Ahiru said, shaking her head. “I don’t know all of who you are, but I know some. Rue-chan is quiet, and smart, and a good dancer, and loves Mytho. She's strong and passionate and seems like she’s proud, but really she’s just shy. She wants to do well at things so that people will like her, but she has trouble letting them love her for being her. She kind of feels like she has to earn their love. That’s Rue-chan.”
Rue was looking at Ahiru now, her claret eyes a little wide. Then she smiled. “If that’s so,” she asked, “then who is Ahiru?”
“Mmm.” Ahiru leaned back and looked up at the bare branches of the tree. “Ahiru’s not a very good dancer yet, but she tries really hard so that someday she will be. She’s kind of clumsy and not very smart, but she likes everyone, and hopes they like her. She’s happiest when her friends are happy, and unhappy when they’re not, but she’s accepted that she can’t fix everything. She used to be someone magic, but she only has a little bit of the magic left now, and even that was a present, but it’s okay. She doesn’t have to be a princess to do her best.”
“Ahiru is the kind of person whom everyone loves,” Rue said softly.
“So is Rue-chan,” Ahiru replied.
*
Rue tried on the thought of being Fakir’s sister. Of calling him “Oniisama.” Of someday having Ahiru as a sister-in-law.
Fakir had a strange, marvelous power that reordered the universe when he used it. She didn’t believe she had anything similar, but it might be that the hint of that power was why the Raven had kidnapped her. She had known something her “father” never had, that she was in a story, and addressing the storyteller by name had once given her power over the story. But that had been a false power, as Kraehe had been a false perception of herself and the world, and both had ultimately failed her.
She was Drosselmeyer’s great-granddaughter, just as Fakir was his great-grandson. She hoped that wherever he was the old man was enjoying all of this.
Rue imagined Fakir would be a protective brother. It was ingrained in him: protect Mytho, protect Ahiru, protect those who needed it. He would be kind, to make up for all those years they hadn’t known one another to be siblings. And Rue... really wouldn’t mind it. Kraehe would have hated it, of course, resented accepting an elder brother who was forced on her, feared he might take her place in her father’s affections, but Rue didn’t have to be Kraehe anymore.
It wasn’t as easy for her as it was for Ahiru. Duck-like, Ahiru floated on the surface of the changing currents in her life. Rue was pushed about and battered by change. It was why she’d hated change so, why Mytho changing had frightened her and made her revert back to Kraehe. Stability was peaceful.
But change could be good, too.
Rue looked at Ahiru, sunny and bright and human again.
She closed her fingers together and drew out a raven’s feather between them.
“My ‘father’ would hate me accepting being Fakir’s sister,” she said softly as she examined the glossy black sheen of the feather’s surface. She smiled and looked at Ahiru again. “I think that’s even more reason to do so, don’t you?”
*
Fakir’s quill ran out of words. With a soft sigh, he finished the story, signing it with two words: “The End,” and a flourish. Then he looked up, at where Mytho finished reading the next-to-last page and handed it Charon. A stack of vellum rested next to Charon’s elbow as the smith absently read Rue’s story. Fakir looked at the thickness of the stack and raised an eyebrow, being fairly certain he hadn’t brought that much paper down with him. On the other hand, he admitted, if anyone had slipped more paper beneath his pen while he was writing, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed. He wordlessly handed the last page to Mytho to read and refilled his glass with water, drinking thirstily.
It was almost dark out now, he noted, and wondered how long he’d been writing. His hand was a little cramped as he flexed it, but not too badly. He refused to think about Rue’s life for now, having just been immersed in her experiences for several hours. But there was no denying that she was indeed his sister Claire.
Having the queen as his sister was going to be interesting, Fakir thought with a faint ironic smile for the idea. But if it gave Rue a family... well, and she was his sister. He’d always accepted Claire as being dead, so it was strange to know that she was the girl he’d partnered with in dance class so many times over the years.
Mytho handed the last page to Charon and looked at Fakir. “Brothers-in-law?” he asked with the faint tilt to his smile that meant he was finding the situation almost as ironically appropriate as Fakir.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to warn you to be good to my sister ‘or else’?” Fakir asked.
“I always thought less vague threats were better, myself,” Charon said. “When my sister Celeste got married, my brothers and I... well, never mind.” He coughed into his hand. “This, though....” He tapped the stack of papers next to him. His eyes were considering. “I’ve never seen you write before, Fakir.”
Fakir thought about it and realized Charon hadn’t. He knew about it, of course; Fakir had told him early on. But to see.... “It’s just description," he said. "Unless I force my will on it... even then, it's useless most of the time,” he said. Clockwork gears turned faintly behind everything in his ears; Fakir fought to ignore the sound. He hadn't altered Rue's story, hadn't forced a rewrite to make her his sister. She always had been, and neither of them had ever known.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Charon neatened the stack and handed it back to Fakir. “Something like this seems very useful.”
Fakir held Rue’s story in his hands and wondered obscurely if he should give it to her or burn it. He stood and walked to the kitchen.
“Fakir?” Charon asked.
Fakir hefted the story. “I’m burning this.”
“What? But why?”
Fakir looked at the story, considering. “There are things in here no one should know about their future queen,” he answered. “For us to know, it’s all right. But what if some minister or maid found this and read it? They’d call for her to be burned as a witch.”
Mytho nodded, understanding. “You burn most of your true stories, don’t you?”
“All of them,” Fakir confirmed. “I’m not Drosselmeyer; I don’t say to hell with the consequences.”
*
Mytho watched through the doorway as Fakir opened the oven door and fed the paper to the flames, one sheet at a time. It was true that Rue could rightly be accused of witchcraft; worse, a fact which he wondered if Fakir had considered, so could her brother. Rue at least could defend herself against any attackers, flying away on wings of air and darkness if needs should be; when Fakir used his power he was utterly defenseless, locked into the spell he wove until it reached completion. It would be far too easy to injure or kill him at any time, human as he was.
There was absolutely no one whom Mytho would prefer at his back in a battle than Fakir. Rue could wield a sword, it was true, but Mytho hated the thought of blood on his bride’s hands. He’d known even before Fakir had written of it that the Raven had done her much damage, and such wounds were slow to heal. Fakir, though, had already won past his trauma and would stand fast against whatever he might encounter. The contrast between the siblings was marked, but their similarities were also striking.
If Rue needed Mytho’s protection, so did Fakir, his once and future knight.
*
Fakir held the power of time and space in his hands, and he hoped that fact would never stop disturbing him. He felt Mytho’s eyes on his back as he slowly fed Rue’s story to the fire, but the prince’s eyes could not see everything, and Fakir hoped his fear was one of the things Mytho couldn’t see.
He’d changed one thing in the way Rue’s story had gone.
As a child, when she’d been attacked by the Raven’s anger, there had been no prince to protect her until Fakir, stricken by her fear and loneliness, had written Mytho to be there, at that time and that place. She would have loved Mytho blindly (in many ways, he reflected, she still had) if he’d not changed that one moment, but never so deeply.
Rue’s story now fed cleanly into the one Fakir had already written about the defeat of the Raven, but it sickened him, knowing that he’d just played with his friends like they were marionettes. He stared at the flames and wished he could trust himself never to do it again.
*
Winning the tournament was not as easy as Fakir had hoped it might be, but then all things worth doing were worth nearly killing yourself for. Certainly meeting Mytho’s expectations and proving himself to those who doubted him fit Fakir’s definition of “worth doing.”
Lohengrin’s sword was an extension of his arm, and every shock that rang up the blade shivered a little more of his last life into place for Fakir. Tournaments like this hadn’t been so uncommon then and Lohengrin had participated in his share of them. He hadn’t won them all, of course, but Fakir was going to win this one.
Being a knight meant understanding the codes of chivalry and honor. It meant defending the defenseless and smiting the unrighteous. It meant a life-long study of weapons and tactics, an understanding of political workings and the human heart. It meant offering your loyalty where it was deserved, and never, ever straying from the vows you had made. And Fakir understood this where far too many of the young bucks and old stags he fought did not. Being a knight was not glory and riches as they thought, but hard work and study. It was battles in the mud and rain, soaking your hands in blood for the sake of a higher ideal, nights when you couldn’t stand human touch, and nights when you couldn’t stand to be alone. It was being worn down by fear, and anger, and grief, but nonetheless holding true to the things you stood for because if you did not, what were you? It was all this, and it was also the quiet moments when you won through everything and knew you had held fast, and laughed aloud in relief, lifting your face to the sun, for the strain was lifted.
Fakir had a grave. He hadn’t visited it the way he had Drosselmeyer’s, but he knew it existed. Somewhere Lohengrin’s corporeal body slowly rotted into the soil, while his spirit had torn free of the flesh and lingered, its task of protecting the prince unfulfilled. He was Lohengrin reborn to that purpose, just as he suspected Ahiru was Princess Tutu reborn to finish her task of restoring the prince. Individually, they’d failed the first time; only together had they set the story right.
Ahiru was in the stands nearby, watching. He could feel her presence through the shard of his heart she carried. They’d argued about her coming, of course; he hadn’t wanted her to experience the violence any more than Mytho had wanted Rue to. But Ahiru had won this round, insisting that if he got hurt she needed to be there to bind his injuries. Between his bouts, Fakir glanced at her and Charon and Rachael once in a while. Hans hadn't been able to come. When he caught their eyes, all three waved encouragement at him. He caught Mytho’s eye, sitting in the royal booth, as well, but the prince was carefully neutral, only the faint curve of his mouth and Fakir’s long knowledge of him giving indication of his thoughts.
Fakir’s gaze drifted back to the combatants before himself as he rested. He watched them, both the ones he’d already faced and those who had yet to raise blade against him. Most he thought were fairly useless for Mytho’s purpose of rebuilding the Order to which they had once both belonged. But here and there a few shone like Edel's gems: an older man, proud but bright with hope for the future. A teenager younger than Fakir who fought fiercely but expended himself too quickly, hoping to catch the prince’s eye and be allowed the privilege of serving. Fakir wondered what parent or guardian had allowed that one into the tournament, but found himself admitting that he belonged and would do well as a knight. There were two others as well: a tall man in his late thirties, of solid build and dark expression. Fakir had found it hard to get around his excellent defense, but what impressed him more was the feeling of devotion that circled like clockwork gears around the man. He’d lost so much, Fakir found in the quickest of glances at the man’s story as he’d circled too, looking for an opening, but he needed only a chance and he’d give himself entirely to Mytho. The last was more of an enigma, as the fighter hadn’t once raised his helm or spoken, but there was a purity there that rang true to Fakir and somehow he knew that this one, also, would do well in service to the kingdom.
Five of them. It was so few.
It was nonetheless a beginning.
*
When Mytho raised the tournament’s champion to his feet, he smiled warmly at his friend, proud. Fakir smiled wearily back. He had risen through the tournament and easily proven himself the best. Mytho had never doubted this result. Unfortunately for many others, though, he thought as he saw discreet pouches of coin being passed between furtive hands, they had.
The minute he released Fakir, though, the writer was set on by Ahiru with a happy cry of “Fakir!”
“Congratulations, Fakir,” Mytho murmured.
“Thank you,” Fakir replied. “Ahiru, stop. That hurts.” But his expression, as she immediately apologized, was anything but chiding.
Mytho looked at the remaining tournament entrants, his unknowing knight-candidates, and smiled. “I would like to thank all of you for entering,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “and invite you to the feast to be held tonight. Our country is not large, and it is a wondrous thing that so many of you could come to demonstrate your prowess against our enemies at such short notice. There are things I wish to speak about with each of you, and prizes to be given at tonight’s feast, not just to the champion, but to all. Until tonight, though, please make yourselves free and at ease in the palace and its grounds.” And then the trumpeters signaled his departure from the jousting grounds.
It wasn’t until slightly later, when the three of them were in Mytho’s chambers, joined by Rue, who had spent the day in dance practice, that Mytho asked his knight’s opinion of the others. Fakir was shirtless, having lost that battle with Ahiru, who was tending his wounds. Mytho had seen his former roommate's birthmarks before, when Fakir was over-tired and not his usual fastidious self, and it seemed Ahiru had as well, but Rue hadn't, and had looked shocked, biting her lip against a comment. Fortunately Fakir hadn't been facing her at the time.
“Lord Jerald of Langfell,” Fakir answered immediately. “He’s older, but he’s also well-learned in both books and battle.”
Mytho nodded. “He traveled outside the kingdom and fought in several wars when he was younger. He has experience that could be useful.”
“On the other end of the spectrum, Alain Grunbow,” Fakir recommended.
“He’s not even sixteen,” Mytho objected. “A few years, maybe, and--”
“Did you see how he was fighting?” Fakir interrupted. “More than anything he wanted you to notice him. He’s young, yes, but I don’t think it matters. Grab him now, set him under Sir Jerald or something if you like, but take him. He’ll give you loyalty for life.”
“Fakir....”
“Mytho, I knew my mind when I was younger than he was. Age is an illusion; you of all people should know that--ow! Ahiru!”
“Then don’t get hurt next time,” Ahiru said practically, tugging a bandage tighter around Fakir's ribs. “You could have dodged that hit. I saw it!”
“I was getting tired,” Fakir grumbled.
“Then perhaps you should do more endurance training, Oniisama,” Rue chimed in.
Fakir glared at her. “You spend a day battling your way through a tournament and then you can tell me I need more training.”
“So Alain Grunbow,” Mytho said, directing the conversation back on topic. “All right. His uncle the Earl will probably agree. Who else?”
“Tanner of the Flats,” Fakir answered, “and Kay Rosen.”
Mytho nodded, considering. “Tanner will have the support of the Tanner’s Guild,” he agreed. “Kay Rosen I’d never heard of before today. But he did well.”
“Third, by the listings,” Fakir agreed. “I don’t know who he is either.”
“He comes from Apfelfold, in the north,” Rue said, reading a copy of the entrant listings. “Age twenty-two. No sponsor. How did he afford his armor if he had no sponsor?”
“Family money?” Ahiru guessed, tying off the bandage. “I’m done, Fakir.”
“Maybe,” Fakir responded, grabbing his shirt off the bed and shrugging it back on. “I’d say most of the armor was inherited, though. It’s about seventy years out of style.”
“Armor comes in styles?” Rue asked.
“Ideas about what’s best change over time,” Fakir answered. “If you’re ever in the mood, ask Charon to show you his collection. I spent a lot of time learning about armor from him, even if we almost never had to make it.”
“Five knights,” Mytho said, trying not to sound disappointed. He’d hoped for more, with nearly a hundred entrants in the tournament.
“And ninety-three sword arms,” Fakir pointed out. “It’s a beginning.”
“You’re not expecting war, are you, Mytho?” Ahiru asked, her eyes wide and worried.
“I hope not,” Mytho answered. “But we’ve become exposed to the world now that Drosselmeyer’s story is finished. I’d prefer to be overly cautious than not ready.”
“But Fakir could fix things...” she started, then stopped. “No, that’s not his job, is it?” Ahiru asked, almost to herself. Her hand was on her pendant. She smiled up at Mytho. "It's yours to make sure it doesn't go wrong to begin with."
Mytho nodded. "That's what being a prince or a king means."
*
Mytho remembered Lohengrin, and the day of his death. They'd been hunting the monstrous Raven together but become separated. He'd heard the familiar sound of Lohengrin's sword off to his right and run to aid his friend, arriving only in time to see their enemy tear Lohengrin in two.
He still remembered how hot the tears had been on his cheeks as he'd held his friend's body to himself and screamed denial.
He'd buried his friend and, vengeance in his heart, continued their hunt alone, until finally he sacrificed his own heart rather than let the Raven roam free any longer.
One of the reasons Mytho knew there was a merciful God was that Lohengrin was returned to him. He hadn't known the child Fakir for his friend at first, it was true, and after he understood, he hadn't cared for a very long time, just as he hadn't cared about anything else. But it was for this reason that Fakir was his most precious friend. Standing in his court, in the palace that was once his father's, Mytho looked around and thought that of that other life, that other court that he remembered, only Fakir had been given back to him.
Time had passed, and not been kind. Everyone he had known had aged and died while he wandered, heartless, beneath the spell of Drosselmeyer's tale. Without a heart he had been powerless to grow and change, unable to age with his contemporaries. He did not regret the sacrifice, but wished he'd been able to comfort his parents as they'd grown old, believing him dead. As it was, all he could do was lay flowers on their graves in the catacombs and murmur his prayers that they were happy in another place. Mytho had felt strange as he'd stood in his father's palace and his father's place for the first time, and wondered if other princes and kings had felt the same way since the beginning of time.
"Shall we?" he asked her, offering his hand to Rue.
"Yes," she replied, with a small smile, taking it.
With smiles of their own, Fakir offered his hand to Ahiru and she took it. The doorman rapped his staff, getting the attention of the milling crowd, and announced the entrance of the prince and his lady, and the tournament champion and his companion.
The four of them led the first dance, of course. It was one of the parts of court duty that made Rue glow, and one Mytho always wished would last longer. They both loved dancing, but for Rue it was one of the few times she was truly happy. There was so little he could do to ease her fears except run from his chamber to hers when he heard her scream in the night, holding her in his arms until the shaking stopped and she fell back asleep again. If he was Fakir, he could know what she dreamt each night, but he wasn't and she never remembered enough to tell him. She had Ahiru in the afternoons and on Sundays, of course, but far too often Rue was left alone among those who didn't know anything about her.
To Mytho, she was the most precious thing in his kingdom.
After the first dance, he mingled, speaking with all the tournament entrants, pressing small bags of gold coin into each of their hands, winning their loyalty with praise and insight. To a few he spoke longer and in softer tones. Fakir would be knighted first and be the head of the Order of the Swan, but the ceremonies for the other four would not be long behind. It took him longest to find Kay Rosen, and when he did Mytho had to blink, suddenly understanding why the fighter hadn't unmasked during the tournament.
Kay Rosen was a woman.
She wore a man's white tunic and trousers, but the badge embroidered over her heart was the warrior's own, a five-petaled red rose on a black field bordered with gilt. Her red hair was cropped to her chin and she stood like a man. The rest of the ball guests gave her a wide berth, unnatural man-woman as she must seem to them. Mytho caught Fakir's eye from across the room and got an amused smile in response. Smiling himself, Mytho stepped forward to greet the knight-candidate, taking the token bag of gold from the hands of the page who followed him. "You did well today," he said softly, "woman or no."
She blinked as if startled, then gave him a brilliant, saucy smile. "I've been waiting for a king I can respect and serve," she said bluntly. "Are you going to be him?"
"I can only hope so."
*
Rue leaned against the balustrade outside the ballroom, catching a breath of cooler air. She'd been on her feet since the ball began, dancing with one noble or guild head or warrior after another, and no few of them seemed to have two left feet. Still, she'd been graceful and friendly and tried her best to charm them all, even those she thought were petty idiots. She kept reminding herself that if she was to be Mytho's queen she couldn't afford to make enemies.
"Ha!" Ahiru tore herself free of tangling curtains to Rue's right and fled to the safety of the patio herself. "They don't even know who I am but they all want to dance with me to be polite to Fakir," she explained to Rue.
"And half of them can't dance," Rue agreed. They shared a small laugh which was broken by a harsh caw.
Rue whirled to stare at the large raven that fluttered down to perch on the balustrade, gripping the wide marble railing awkwardly in its talons. It eyed her, then spoke in that harsh language she'd tried so hard to forget: "Greetings, Queen of Ravens."
She fell back a step. "Rue-chan?" Ahiru asked from behind her, her voice worried.
"I'm no queen of your kind," Rue denied, shaking her head.
The raven looked at her with one ruby eye, then turned its head and looked at her with the other. "You're human, it's true, and your raven father a mere usurper who killed our rightful queen. But our blood yet runs within you, and our counsel has met and determined that you are the most fit to rule us."
Rue's memory spun and presented her with the name of the raven who spoke to her. "You're Melchior, aren't you? You were one of Father's counsellors."
The raven nodded. "I am honored by your remembering me, my Queen."
"I am to become a queen of humans," Rue said, voice trembling. "One queen cannot rule two peoples."
"We know of your forthcoming marriage to the swan prince," Melchior agreed calmly. "It is fit that you wed a human. We have agreed, crows and ravens, that we will accept him as your consort." There was a cacophony of cawing in agreement and Rue looked up to find that the trees and statues and roof were all covered in crows and ravens, black wings folded at their sides, red eyes all watching her.
"You don't understand," she said. "I can't-- I'm not--"
Another raven fluttered down beside the first. "We know of your fears, o Queen. Your father's rule has left us all scarred. We will give you time, and we hope that you will be so kind to us as well."
"Balthazar...."
One more raven perched on the stone. "We need you, my Queen." His caws were scratchy, but his tone soft and pleading. "We are not a nation, not a people without a queen to rule us." He looked beyond her to where Ahiru stood, worried. "We know of your friendship with this swan, and how you have spoken with other birds as well. We need a queen who can speak with them and make treaties. We need a queen who will be kind. And though your father's daughter, you have ever been kind to us."
"Caspar." Rue pulled herself upright. "I am human. I have a brother. I will not abandon that to go again into darkness and pain."
"That we do not ask of you," the eldest of the three counsellors said. "We ask only that you honor the blood within you."
Rue bowed her head. "Rue-chan," Ahiru said softly from behind her.
Rue raised her head, expression firm. "So long as my humanity is understood as well, I will honor that blood and be your queen."
There was an excited cawing from the rooftops, from the garden, from the darkness beyond. The three ravens swept into bows, wings opening wide. "We shall be ever at your service, my Queen," Melchior murmured. And then they were all gone, taking to the air in a rush of dark wings. On the balustrade where the three had perched remained a black ring set with a single ruby.
"Rue."
She whirled to see Mytho standing at the open doors. He looked up, watching the ravens and crows wing away. "Will you be okay?" he asked softly, eyes returning to her.
"I think so," she answered. "I couldn't just leave them alone. Not when so much of what's wrong is Father's fault."
He nodded. "I understand." He stepped forward and reached past her to take the ring from where it lay. "May I?"
She nodded and he took her right hand, sliding the raven's ring onto her ring finger. It fit as though made for her. Mytho knelt and kissed the back of that hand, looking up at her. "I'm glad," he said softly, and Rue suddenly became aware that Ahiru had slipped away at some point, leaving the two of them alone. "I'm glad that you'll have a chance to reconcile the past and make things right, for both you and them."
"So am I," she said softly as the music swelled within the adjacent ballroom.
*
The wedding day was bright and fair and cold. Ahiru and Fakir woke before dawn, yawning and bustling about their house, eating a quick, cold breakfast before leaving, not even bothering to light the stove since they wouldn't be back until the next day anyway, having been given a pair of guest rooms in the castle since the festivities weren't expected to wind down until well past midnight and then the next day it would be Christmas and they'd be exchanging presents with people in town anyway.... Each carried a small bundle of gifts as they left the house. Ahiru's were mostly knitting, which she'd learned a few months before. She didn't know what Fakir was giving people.
They were separated almost as soon as they reached the castle, bustled off to different rooms where the bride and groom waited separately. She admitted she didn't understand quite why it was important they not see one another before the wedding, since they'd seen one another every day before this one for lots of years, but Ahiru was willing to go along with tradition.
Rue looked more beautiful than ever. Maids bustled about her, brushing her hair, helping her into her dress and shoes and underthings, applying perfume to her wrists and throat, brushing color onto her mouth and cheeks. Rue ignored them all and hugged Ahiru tightly. Ahiru hugged her back. "You're going to be the most beautiful bride ever, Rue-chan," she whispered.
"Thank you, Ahiru," Rue whispered back. "I'm so glad you're here with me." And then the two were separated and Ahiru was bustled into her gown by the maids as well, clucking and cooing over her like mother birds as they applied makeup to her face and rebraided her hair, pinning it up. The one stubborn lock that always sprang straight up defied their efforts to tame it, though, and they finally gave up.
By ten o'clock of the morning they were both ready and at the church. Fakir had come to the bride's room briefly to greet his sister and wish her the best with a soft touch of his hand to her cheek, but it was when he looked at Ahiru that his eyes had glowed. Being Rue's brother he should have, of course, been the one to walk her down the aisle, but Mytho's request had come first and so after debate Charon and Neko-sensei had both been asked to escort Rue down the aisle. Ahiru preceded them, of course, sprinkling the white petals of winter flowers down the central aisle of the packed cathedral.
Everything was just perfect, of course, as she'd always known it would be for Mytho and Rue's wedding. The priest droned solemn words about the responsibility of Man to God, Husband to Wife, and Parent to Child. It almost seemed like no one was breathing, the church was so silent as Ahiru accepted Rue's bouquet and Mytho took the wedding ring from Fakir. And then they kissed, and Ahiru couldn't remember ever being so happy and excited for her friends in her life. And as Fakir took her arm and led her out of the church after the bridal pair, Ahiru looked up to see the three ravens perched in the rafters and smiled conspiratorially at them.
They returned to the castle for a quick private lunch and then a public ball at which the prince and new princess would accept wedding gifts from their people. Ahiru had seen the line, and estimated that was going to take all day. As the bride and groom's attendants, however, she and Fakir were privileged to be first.
Mytho curiously unwrapped the square package that Fakir handed to him. It turned out to be a bound sheaf of handwritten pages. "Fakir, this is...."
"It's a ballet I wrote for the two of you," Fakir answered. The front page contained the title: The Swan Prince and the Raven Princess. "It's from Arthur as well--he wrote the score. It's a comedy. I thought you'd both like that best."
Rue looked up at Fakir with her wide eyes. "Fakir, thank you. I look forward to dancing it."
Fakir gave a nod and turned to Ahiru. He didn't know her gift, just as she hadn't known his. Ahiru smiled mischeviously and went to the nearest window, throwing it wide open. Birds of all shapes and sizes rushed in. Many of them had come from far away, breaking their usual migration patterns for this event and her request. They filled the room and swept into the ballroom as well, perching on rafters, on statuary, on trellised greenlife. And as one their chests all swelled and they began to sing.
The musicians and guests all blinked in shock. Slowly the musicians lowered their instruments, looking at one another as if to say "We can't compete with this." Because the birds were not stupid and knew how to listen to human song as well. They would sing waltzes and reels, entertaining the prince and princess and their guests until sundown. Every bird type Ahiru knew of, and a few she didn't, were represented.
"Ahiru, this is..." Rue said as she walked back over to the prince and princess.
"Everyone wanted to do this for you when I asked," Ahiru said. "Because you're a prince and princess of birds too. I didn't let anyone out, even those of us who can't sing so well, because... well, 'if only those who sang best sang, the woods would be very silent'," she quoted bird wisdom.
"It's beautiful," Mytho said, his head tilted slightly as if to listen more closely to the music. "You must thank them for us. Thank you."
Ahiru put her hand to the back of her head, embarrased. "It was nothing," she murmured, and moved away to let the next in line give their gift.
It was three ravens who alighted on the arms of the twin thrones. "Highnesses," Balthazar cawed, "we bring you felicitations on your wedding day, and our gift."
"You don't need to give us a gift," Rue protested.
"Ha! Gifts are never 'needed'," Melchior replied. "That's what makes them gifts."
"We bring a gift for your consort, my Queen, that he too may understand the speech of our people," Caspar said. A single black feather floated down into Rue's hands.
"Rue?" Mytho asked, looking at the feather.
"It's so that you'll understand them," she said softly. "If you want it."
His hand rested on hers, Mytho's eyes alight. "Of course. They're your people."
Rue smiled tremulously and pressed her hand to his heart, where the feather sunk in as easily as any of the heart shards Tutu had returned to him ever had.
"It's because of that one drop of raven's blood in his heart," Fakir murmured to Ahiru, both of them watching. "That's why they'll accept him and the spell will work."
Mytho looked up at the three ravens. "Thank you, Queen's Counsellors," he said softly, with a bow. "If ever you have need of me, I am at your service."
Cawing with pleased laughter, the three ravens took to the air.
*
The festivities for the wedding never really stopped but rather melded into Christmas festivities, then combined celebrations for the coronation and the new year. Ahiru and Fakir cleaned their home thoroughly, sweeping out dust, hanging up sprigs of pine that filled the house with a wonderful scent, turning mattresses and reorganizing linens folded away in trunks. They stole a little time to go ice-skating on the frozen lake. And then, suddenly, it was time for the coronation.
They watched with what seemed like everyone who had been to the wedding as well as everyone who hadn't, as the priest led Mytho and Rue through a second set of vows, outlining their duty this time not just to one another, but to God, to their country, and to their people. There were promises made and symbolic gestures. Mytho dipped his fingers in earth, Rue in ashes. Both had river water sprinkled on their foreheads. Heavy, ornate crowns were set on their heads. Mytho was given back the sword of Siegfried, and Rue a nameless halberd known only as "the Queen's." And the priest called down blessings upon them and rose them both to their feet, turning them to face their people.
"At long last," someone said behind Ahiru, barely audible over the applause, "we have our right king on the throne, and a noble queen to rule beside him."
"I never thought I'd see this day," she heard a woman say, sobbing.
Fakir caught Ahiru's hand and squeezed it as they watched the procession go by. "And they all lived happily ever after?" she asked him.
Fakir nodded, his eyes shining. "They did."
There weren’t too many people who believed in fairy tales anymore, Ahiru thought as she carried a bowl of roasted potatoes to the table, but Charon was surely among them. Fakir’s foster father had been the first to recognize the marks of Drosselmeyer’s story, after all, splashed across Fakir’s body. He’d been the one whose family had kept the treasure of Lohengrin’s sword until one day the knight should return to wield the blade again. He’d realized who the nameless white-haired youth without a heartbeat had to be, and sheltered him along with Fakir. And he’d never had trouble accepting that the duckling (who later turned out to be a swan) his foster son spent time with had once been the girl Ahiru and also the Princess known as Tutu.
His ability to accept what “rational” people surely thought of as impossible was just one more reason Ahiru really liked Charon, she thought, smiling as she set the bowl down and surveyed the table. It was covered with bread and cheeses, meat for those who ate such things, winter greens and vegetables that were largely the bounty of Fakir’s garden, a turret of soup, pats of butter, jugs of milk and buttermilk and water and wine, jellied fruits and bitter pickles. To her it looked like a feast fit for a prince. Who was coming from the shop, discussing the art of swordsmithing with Charon as Fakir and Rue came in from the kitchen, the former drying his hands on a towel.
At least, Ahiru thought bemusedly, Fakir was letting her and Rue help cook these days instead of muttering to himself about helpless, hopeless women.
They seated themselves around the table, Charon saying a brief grace before they started eating, dishes being passed, cups filled, the clinking of silverware and clattering of plates never once managing to cover the conversation. Ahiru avoided the meat platter as a matter of course; other than fish, she’d discovered, she didn’t have a taste for cooked meat of any type.
“This is very good,” Mytho said, indicating a dish of dressed beans.
“Rue made it,” Fakir said blandly. Rue, Ahiru noted, was blushing slightly. “She’s becoming a very good cook,” he continued.
“It’s because you’re a good teacher,” Rue returned the compliment.
“Everything always tastes so good here,” Mytho mused. “Better than at the palace. Fakir, if you ever want a job as a chef....”
“Thank you but no,” Fakir answered. “It’s not that the food that tastes better, anyway; it’s the company.”
“Eating with family is always better than eating in state,” Charon agreed.
Mytho smiled softly. “Agreed.”
Ahiru looked around the table. “I never had a family before.”
Fakir’s fingers found their way into her hair. “Orphan duckling," he teased.
“You’re an orphan too!” she retorted.
“That makes three of us,” Mytho said, the curve of his mouth holding laughter.
“Four,” Charon said with a laugh out loud.
“I suppose my parents may be alive somewhere,” Rue mused. “If I even knew who they were.”
“You don’t know your parents?” Charon asked.
Rue shook her head. “The Raven stole me when I was a baby.”
Charon had the strangest look on his face.
“Charon?” Fakir asked. “Is something wrong?”
The smith looked at the table, then his eyes rose again and he examined Fakir’s face, then Rue’s. “It seems unlikely, but then we do live among those kind of tales.”
“Charon?” Mytho asked.
“Fakir,” Charon asked, “do you remember what your parents told you about Claire?”
Fakir’s eyes widened and his complexion paled. “Impossible,” he breathed.
“Fakir?” Ahiru put her hand on his sleeve, but his eyes were fast on Rue now.
“Who’s... Claire?” Rue asked, sounding almost afraid to hear the answer.
“My sister,” Fakir answered slowly. “I don’t even remember her; she was stolen away by ravens when she was just a baby. I wasn’t even two years old then. But my parents told me about her.”
Rue was pale and stricken now too. “...Me?” she whispered.
“I don’t know why I didn’t see it before,” Charon said quietly. Rue looked at him. “You look like Maria,” he explained. “Your mother. Though Fakir has more of her coloring.”
Rue was trembling now. “I can’t... I can’t be...” she whispered, then suddenly pushed back from the table and fled.
A tumble of voices called after her: “Rue-chan!” “Rue!” “Rue-chan!” Only Fakir was silent, staring after her as she left the room.
Ahiru hesitated. She wanted to go after Rue, but obviously so did Mytho, and he was Rue’s fiancé. Mytho looked at her, though. “You go,” he said. “I think you’ll be better for her right now than I am. I’ll speak with her later.”
Ahiru nodded and ran after the other girl, braid tip smacking against the back of her legs with each stride.
Fakir stared at the doorframe long after both girls had left the building.
“Fakir?” Charon asked, sounding worried.
“She can’t be... Rue can’t be Claire, can she?” he asked, looking up at his foster father. “Everyone said she was dead.”
Charon shook his head. “We never found a body.”
“Fakir,” Mytho said, “if anyone can find out what happened, it’s you.”
Fakir looked wordlessly at his Prince, then stood to go into the room that had been his while he’d lived with Charon. He’d never taken all of his possessions to the lakeshore cottage, and it was one of these that he brought back down the stairs now. It was a small portrait of himself and his parents that had been made by a traveling painter some months before their deaths. And looking at it, he thought he could see his mother in Rue. Their faces were similar, as was their hair. He’d inherited his mother’s Spanish complexion, though, while Rue was pale. But Rue’s fingers were long, making him remember his father’s as Johann had played the violin in the evenings.
It was entirely possible that Rue was his sister.
Sitting back at the table, Fakir pushed aside his plate to make room for the paper, ink, and quill he’d brought down as well. Charon and Mytho watched as he studied the portrait for a moment, then set it down and closed his eyes, listening for the voice of the silence.
The clockwork gears moving behind the universe became clear to Fakir’s sight.
“Once upon a time,” he began, dipping his pen in the inkwell and writing out the beginning of the story of what had happened to his sister, “not so very long ago, there was a happy couple with two children they loved very much. The older was a son, and the younger a baby daughter....”
“Rue-chan!” Ahiru called out again, having long since lost Rue’s trail and slowed to a walk. She tried to think of where Rue might have run to, but she lacked Fakir’s ability to just stare into space for a moment and have the shape of the story and know where the heroine had gone. So she had to guess and hunt and when Ahiru finally found Rue, the older girl was sitting beneath a tree on the bank of the river, not too far from where Princess Tutu had once returned Mytho’s curiosity to him.
“Rue-chan,” Ahiru said softly and sat down beside her friend, spreading the cloak she’d grabbed over both of their shoulders. There was silence for a minute, then she asked, “Why don’t you want to be Fakir’s sister? I mean, he can be mean and annoying sometimes, and when he gets lost in his writing he doesn’t even know you’re there, but really, he’s not that bad.”
“It’s... not that,” Rue said softly, gazing at the sluggish water, her crossed arms resting on drawn-up knees. “It’s... every time I think I know who I am, it changes. I was Kraehe, then I was Rue, then I was Kraehe again, then I wasn’t even the Raven’s daughter, then I was Mytho’s princess... Ahiru, who am I?” The eyes that looked at Ahiru were clouded and lost. “If I’m Fakir’s sister, it means I have to change again.”
“I know what it’s like to be confused,” Ahiru said quietly, plucking a blade of dried grass and twirling it between two fingers. “There were some days when I’d wake up and didn’t know if I was Tutu, or Ahiru, or really just a duck... and then later, when I did know, I ended up not even being a duck after all but turning into a swan. And now I’m a girl again.” She laughed a little, remembering the misery of uncertainty. “But I’m the same person whether I’m a bird or a girl, aren’t I? It’s the same with you, Rue-chan.”
Rue looked back at the water. “Am I?” she asked softly. “Sometimes I think I’m just a doll, dancing whatever role I’m thrust into.”
“No, you’re not,” Ahiru said, shaking her head. “I don’t know all of who you are, but I know some. Rue-chan is quiet, and smart, and a good dancer, and loves Mytho. She's strong and passionate and seems like she’s proud, but really she’s just shy. She wants to do well at things so that people will like her, but she has trouble letting them love her for being her. She kind of feels like she has to earn their love. That’s Rue-chan.”
Rue was looking at Ahiru now, her claret eyes a little wide. Then she smiled. “If that’s so,” she asked, “then who is Ahiru?”
“Mmm.” Ahiru leaned back and looked up at the bare branches of the tree. “Ahiru’s not a very good dancer yet, but she tries really hard so that someday she will be. She’s kind of clumsy and not very smart, but she likes everyone, and hopes they like her. She’s happiest when her friends are happy, and unhappy when they’re not, but she’s accepted that she can’t fix everything. She used to be someone magic, but she only has a little bit of the magic left now, and even that was a present, but it’s okay. She doesn’t have to be a princess to do her best.”
“Ahiru is the kind of person whom everyone loves,” Rue said softly.
“So is Rue-chan,” Ahiru replied.
Rue tried on the thought of being Fakir’s sister. Of calling him “Oniisama.” Of someday having Ahiru as a sister-in-law.
Fakir had a strange, marvelous power that reordered the universe when he used it. She didn’t believe she had anything similar, but it might be that the hint of that power was why the Raven had kidnapped her. She had known something her “father” never had, that she was in a story, and addressing the storyteller by name had once given her power over the story. But that had been a false power, as Kraehe had been a false perception of herself and the world, and both had ultimately failed her.
She was Drosselmeyer’s great-granddaughter, just as Fakir was his great-grandson. She hoped that wherever he was the old man was enjoying all of this.
Rue imagined Fakir would be a protective brother. It was ingrained in him: protect Mytho, protect Ahiru, protect those who needed it. He would be kind, to make up for all those years they hadn’t known one another to be siblings. And Rue... really wouldn’t mind it. Kraehe would have hated it, of course, resented accepting an elder brother who was forced on her, feared he might take her place in her father’s affections, but Rue didn’t have to be Kraehe anymore.
It wasn’t as easy for her as it was for Ahiru. Duck-like, Ahiru floated on the surface of the changing currents in her life. Rue was pushed about and battered by change. It was why she’d hated change so, why Mytho changing had frightened her and made her revert back to Kraehe. Stability was peaceful.
But change could be good, too.
Rue looked at Ahiru, sunny and bright and human again.
She closed her fingers together and drew out a raven’s feather between them.
“My ‘father’ would hate me accepting being Fakir’s sister,” she said softly as she examined the glossy black sheen of the feather’s surface. She smiled and looked at Ahiru again. “I think that’s even more reason to do so, don’t you?”
Fakir’s quill ran out of words. With a soft sigh, he finished the story, signing it with two words: “The End,” and a flourish. Then he looked up, at where Mytho finished reading the next-to-last page and handed it Charon. A stack of vellum rested next to Charon’s elbow as the smith absently read Rue’s story. Fakir looked at the thickness of the stack and raised an eyebrow, being fairly certain he hadn’t brought that much paper down with him. On the other hand, he admitted, if anyone had slipped more paper beneath his pen while he was writing, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed. He wordlessly handed the last page to Mytho to read and refilled his glass with water, drinking thirstily.
It was almost dark out now, he noted, and wondered how long he’d been writing. His hand was a little cramped as he flexed it, but not too badly. He refused to think about Rue’s life for now, having just been immersed in her experiences for several hours. But there was no denying that she was indeed his sister Claire.
Having the queen as his sister was going to be interesting, Fakir thought with a faint ironic smile for the idea. But if it gave Rue a family... well, and she was his sister. He’d always accepted Claire as being dead, so it was strange to know that she was the girl he’d partnered with in dance class so many times over the years.
Mytho handed the last page to Charon and looked at Fakir. “Brothers-in-law?” he asked with the faint tilt to his smile that meant he was finding the situation almost as ironically appropriate as Fakir.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to warn you to be good to my sister ‘or else’?” Fakir asked.
“I always thought less vague threats were better, myself,” Charon said. “When my sister Celeste got married, my brothers and I... well, never mind.” He coughed into his hand. “This, though....” He tapped the stack of papers next to him. His eyes were considering. “I’ve never seen you write before, Fakir.”
Fakir thought about it and realized Charon hadn’t. He knew about it, of course; Fakir had told him early on. But to see.... “It’s just description," he said. "Unless I force my will on it... even then, it's useless most of the time,” he said. Clockwork gears turned faintly behind everything in his ears; Fakir fought to ignore the sound. He hadn't altered Rue's story, hadn't forced a rewrite to make her his sister. She always had been, and neither of them had ever known.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Charon neatened the stack and handed it back to Fakir. “Something like this seems very useful.”
Fakir held Rue’s story in his hands and wondered obscurely if he should give it to her or burn it. He stood and walked to the kitchen.
“Fakir?” Charon asked.
Fakir hefted the story. “I’m burning this.”
“What? But why?”
Fakir looked at the story, considering. “There are things in here no one should know about their future queen,” he answered. “For us to know, it’s all right. But what if some minister or maid found this and read it? They’d call for her to be burned as a witch.”
Mytho nodded, understanding. “You burn most of your true stories, don’t you?”
“All of them,” Fakir confirmed. “I’m not Drosselmeyer; I don’t say to hell with the consequences.”
Mytho watched through the doorway as Fakir opened the oven door and fed the paper to the flames, one sheet at a time. It was true that Rue could rightly be accused of witchcraft; worse, a fact which he wondered if Fakir had considered, so could her brother. Rue at least could defend herself against any attackers, flying away on wings of air and darkness if needs should be; when Fakir used his power he was utterly defenseless, locked into the spell he wove until it reached completion. It would be far too easy to injure or kill him at any time, human as he was.
There was absolutely no one whom Mytho would prefer at his back in a battle than Fakir. Rue could wield a sword, it was true, but Mytho hated the thought of blood on his bride’s hands. He’d known even before Fakir had written of it that the Raven had done her much damage, and such wounds were slow to heal. Fakir, though, had already won past his trauma and would stand fast against whatever he might encounter. The contrast between the siblings was marked, but their similarities were also striking.
If Rue needed Mytho’s protection, so did Fakir, his once and future knight.
Fakir held the power of time and space in his hands, and he hoped that fact would never stop disturbing him. He felt Mytho’s eyes on his back as he slowly fed Rue’s story to the fire, but the prince’s eyes could not see everything, and Fakir hoped his fear was one of the things Mytho couldn’t see.
He’d changed one thing in the way Rue’s story had gone.
As a child, when she’d been attacked by the Raven’s anger, there had been no prince to protect her until Fakir, stricken by her fear and loneliness, had written Mytho to be there, at that time and that place. She would have loved Mytho blindly (in many ways, he reflected, she still had) if he’d not changed that one moment, but never so deeply.
Rue’s story now fed cleanly into the one Fakir had already written about the defeat of the Raven, but it sickened him, knowing that he’d just played with his friends like they were marionettes. He stared at the flames and wished he could trust himself never to do it again.
Winning the tournament was not as easy as Fakir had hoped it might be, but then all things worth doing were worth nearly killing yourself for. Certainly meeting Mytho’s expectations and proving himself to those who doubted him fit Fakir’s definition of “worth doing.”
Lohengrin’s sword was an extension of his arm, and every shock that rang up the blade shivered a little more of his last life into place for Fakir. Tournaments like this hadn’t been so uncommon then and Lohengrin had participated in his share of them. He hadn’t won them all, of course, but Fakir was going to win this one.
Being a knight meant understanding the codes of chivalry and honor. It meant defending the defenseless and smiting the unrighteous. It meant a life-long study of weapons and tactics, an understanding of political workings and the human heart. It meant offering your loyalty where it was deserved, and never, ever straying from the vows you had made. And Fakir understood this where far too many of the young bucks and old stags he fought did not. Being a knight was not glory and riches as they thought, but hard work and study. It was battles in the mud and rain, soaking your hands in blood for the sake of a higher ideal, nights when you couldn’t stand human touch, and nights when you couldn’t stand to be alone. It was being worn down by fear, and anger, and grief, but nonetheless holding true to the things you stood for because if you did not, what were you? It was all this, and it was also the quiet moments when you won through everything and knew you had held fast, and laughed aloud in relief, lifting your face to the sun, for the strain was lifted.
Fakir had a grave. He hadn’t visited it the way he had Drosselmeyer’s, but he knew it existed. Somewhere Lohengrin’s corporeal body slowly rotted into the soil, while his spirit had torn free of the flesh and lingered, its task of protecting the prince unfulfilled. He was Lohengrin reborn to that purpose, just as he suspected Ahiru was Princess Tutu reborn to finish her task of restoring the prince. Individually, they’d failed the first time; only together had they set the story right.
Ahiru was in the stands nearby, watching. He could feel her presence through the shard of his heart she carried. They’d argued about her coming, of course; he hadn’t wanted her to experience the violence any more than Mytho had wanted Rue to. But Ahiru had won this round, insisting that if he got hurt she needed to be there to bind his injuries. Between his bouts, Fakir glanced at her and Charon and Rachael once in a while. Hans hadn't been able to come. When he caught their eyes, all three waved encouragement at him. He caught Mytho’s eye, sitting in the royal booth, as well, but the prince was carefully neutral, only the faint curve of his mouth and Fakir’s long knowledge of him giving indication of his thoughts.
Fakir’s gaze drifted back to the combatants before himself as he rested. He watched them, both the ones he’d already faced and those who had yet to raise blade against him. Most he thought were fairly useless for Mytho’s purpose of rebuilding the Order to which they had once both belonged. But here and there a few shone like Edel's gems: an older man, proud but bright with hope for the future. A teenager younger than Fakir who fought fiercely but expended himself too quickly, hoping to catch the prince’s eye and be allowed the privilege of serving. Fakir wondered what parent or guardian had allowed that one into the tournament, but found himself admitting that he belonged and would do well as a knight. There were two others as well: a tall man in his late thirties, of solid build and dark expression. Fakir had found it hard to get around his excellent defense, but what impressed him more was the feeling of devotion that circled like clockwork gears around the man. He’d lost so much, Fakir found in the quickest of glances at the man’s story as he’d circled too, looking for an opening, but he needed only a chance and he’d give himself entirely to Mytho. The last was more of an enigma, as the fighter hadn’t once raised his helm or spoken, but there was a purity there that rang true to Fakir and somehow he knew that this one, also, would do well in service to the kingdom.
Five of them. It was so few.
It was nonetheless a beginning.
When Mytho raised the tournament’s champion to his feet, he smiled warmly at his friend, proud. Fakir smiled wearily back. He had risen through the tournament and easily proven himself the best. Mytho had never doubted this result. Unfortunately for many others, though, he thought as he saw discreet pouches of coin being passed between furtive hands, they had.
The minute he released Fakir, though, the writer was set on by Ahiru with a happy cry of “Fakir!”
“Congratulations, Fakir,” Mytho murmured.
“Thank you,” Fakir replied. “Ahiru, stop. That hurts.” But his expression, as she immediately apologized, was anything but chiding.
Mytho looked at the remaining tournament entrants, his unknowing knight-candidates, and smiled. “I would like to thank all of you for entering,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “and invite you to the feast to be held tonight. Our country is not large, and it is a wondrous thing that so many of you could come to demonstrate your prowess against our enemies at such short notice. There are things I wish to speak about with each of you, and prizes to be given at tonight’s feast, not just to the champion, but to all. Until tonight, though, please make yourselves free and at ease in the palace and its grounds.” And then the trumpeters signaled his departure from the jousting grounds.
It wasn’t until slightly later, when the three of them were in Mytho’s chambers, joined by Rue, who had spent the day in dance practice, that Mytho asked his knight’s opinion of the others. Fakir was shirtless, having lost that battle with Ahiru, who was tending his wounds. Mytho had seen his former roommate's birthmarks before, when Fakir was over-tired and not his usual fastidious self, and it seemed Ahiru had as well, but Rue hadn't, and had looked shocked, biting her lip against a comment. Fortunately Fakir hadn't been facing her at the time.
“Lord Jerald of Langfell,” Fakir answered immediately. “He’s older, but he’s also well-learned in both books and battle.”
Mytho nodded. “He traveled outside the kingdom and fought in several wars when he was younger. He has experience that could be useful.”
“On the other end of the spectrum, Alain Grunbow,” Fakir recommended.
“He’s not even sixteen,” Mytho objected. “A few years, maybe, and--”
“Did you see how he was fighting?” Fakir interrupted. “More than anything he wanted you to notice him. He’s young, yes, but I don’t think it matters. Grab him now, set him under Sir Jerald or something if you like, but take him. He’ll give you loyalty for life.”
“Fakir....”
“Mytho, I knew my mind when I was younger than he was. Age is an illusion; you of all people should know that--ow! Ahiru!”
“Then don’t get hurt next time,” Ahiru said practically, tugging a bandage tighter around Fakir's ribs. “You could have dodged that hit. I saw it!”
“I was getting tired,” Fakir grumbled.
“Then perhaps you should do more endurance training, Oniisama,” Rue chimed in.
Fakir glared at her. “You spend a day battling your way through a tournament and then you can tell me I need more training.”
“So Alain Grunbow,” Mytho said, directing the conversation back on topic. “All right. His uncle the Earl will probably agree. Who else?”
“Tanner of the Flats,” Fakir answered, “and Kay Rosen.”
Mytho nodded, considering. “Tanner will have the support of the Tanner’s Guild,” he agreed. “Kay Rosen I’d never heard of before today. But he did well.”
“Third, by the listings,” Fakir agreed. “I don’t know who he is either.”
“He comes from Apfelfold, in the north,” Rue said, reading a copy of the entrant listings. “Age twenty-two. No sponsor. How did he afford his armor if he had no sponsor?”
“Family money?” Ahiru guessed, tying off the bandage. “I’m done, Fakir.”
“Maybe,” Fakir responded, grabbing his shirt off the bed and shrugging it back on. “I’d say most of the armor was inherited, though. It’s about seventy years out of style.”
“Armor comes in styles?” Rue asked.
“Ideas about what’s best change over time,” Fakir answered. “If you’re ever in the mood, ask Charon to show you his collection. I spent a lot of time learning about armor from him, even if we almost never had to make it.”
“Five knights,” Mytho said, trying not to sound disappointed. He’d hoped for more, with nearly a hundred entrants in the tournament.
“And ninety-three sword arms,” Fakir pointed out. “It’s a beginning.”
“You’re not expecting war, are you, Mytho?” Ahiru asked, her eyes wide and worried.
“I hope not,” Mytho answered. “But we’ve become exposed to the world now that Drosselmeyer’s story is finished. I’d prefer to be overly cautious than not ready.”
“But Fakir could fix things...” she started, then stopped. “No, that’s not his job, is it?” Ahiru asked, almost to herself. Her hand was on her pendant. She smiled up at Mytho. "It's yours to make sure it doesn't go wrong to begin with."
Mytho nodded. "That's what being a prince or a king means."
Mytho remembered Lohengrin, and the day of his death. They'd been hunting the monstrous Raven together but become separated. He'd heard the familiar sound of Lohengrin's sword off to his right and run to aid his friend, arriving only in time to see their enemy tear Lohengrin in two.
He still remembered how hot the tears had been on his cheeks as he'd held his friend's body to himself and screamed denial.
He'd buried his friend and, vengeance in his heart, continued their hunt alone, until finally he sacrificed his own heart rather than let the Raven roam free any longer.
One of the reasons Mytho knew there was a merciful God was that Lohengrin was returned to him. He hadn't known the child Fakir for his friend at first, it was true, and after he understood, he hadn't cared for a very long time, just as he hadn't cared about anything else. But it was for this reason that Fakir was his most precious friend. Standing in his court, in the palace that was once his father's, Mytho looked around and thought that of that other life, that other court that he remembered, only Fakir had been given back to him.
Time had passed, and not been kind. Everyone he had known had aged and died while he wandered, heartless, beneath the spell of Drosselmeyer's tale. Without a heart he had been powerless to grow and change, unable to age with his contemporaries. He did not regret the sacrifice, but wished he'd been able to comfort his parents as they'd grown old, believing him dead. As it was, all he could do was lay flowers on their graves in the catacombs and murmur his prayers that they were happy in another place. Mytho had felt strange as he'd stood in his father's palace and his father's place for the first time, and wondered if other princes and kings had felt the same way since the beginning of time.
"Shall we?" he asked her, offering his hand to Rue.
"Yes," she replied, with a small smile, taking it.
With smiles of their own, Fakir offered his hand to Ahiru and she took it. The doorman rapped his staff, getting the attention of the milling crowd, and announced the entrance of the prince and his lady, and the tournament champion and his companion.
The four of them led the first dance, of course. It was one of the parts of court duty that made Rue glow, and one Mytho always wished would last longer. They both loved dancing, but for Rue it was one of the few times she was truly happy. There was so little he could do to ease her fears except run from his chamber to hers when he heard her scream in the night, holding her in his arms until the shaking stopped and she fell back asleep again. If he was Fakir, he could know what she dreamt each night, but he wasn't and she never remembered enough to tell him. She had Ahiru in the afternoons and on Sundays, of course, but far too often Rue was left alone among those who didn't know anything about her.
To Mytho, she was the most precious thing in his kingdom.
After the first dance, he mingled, speaking with all the tournament entrants, pressing small bags of gold coin into each of their hands, winning their loyalty with praise and insight. To a few he spoke longer and in softer tones. Fakir would be knighted first and be the head of the Order of the Swan, but the ceremonies for the other four would not be long behind. It took him longest to find Kay Rosen, and when he did Mytho had to blink, suddenly understanding why the fighter hadn't unmasked during the tournament.
Kay Rosen was a woman.
She wore a man's white tunic and trousers, but the badge embroidered over her heart was the warrior's own, a five-petaled red rose on a black field bordered with gilt. Her red hair was cropped to her chin and she stood like a man. The rest of the ball guests gave her a wide berth, unnatural man-woman as she must seem to them. Mytho caught Fakir's eye from across the room and got an amused smile in response. Smiling himself, Mytho stepped forward to greet the knight-candidate, taking the token bag of gold from the hands of the page who followed him. "You did well today," he said softly, "woman or no."
She blinked as if startled, then gave him a brilliant, saucy smile. "I've been waiting for a king I can respect and serve," she said bluntly. "Are you going to be him?"
"I can only hope so."
Rue leaned against the balustrade outside the ballroom, catching a breath of cooler air. She'd been on her feet since the ball began, dancing with one noble or guild head or warrior after another, and no few of them seemed to have two left feet. Still, she'd been graceful and friendly and tried her best to charm them all, even those she thought were petty idiots. She kept reminding herself that if she was to be Mytho's queen she couldn't afford to make enemies.
"Ha!" Ahiru tore herself free of tangling curtains to Rue's right and fled to the safety of the patio herself. "They don't even know who I am but they all want to dance with me to be polite to Fakir," she explained to Rue.
"And half of them can't dance," Rue agreed. They shared a small laugh which was broken by a harsh caw.
Rue whirled to stare at the large raven that fluttered down to perch on the balustrade, gripping the wide marble railing awkwardly in its talons. It eyed her, then spoke in that harsh language she'd tried so hard to forget: "Greetings, Queen of Ravens."
She fell back a step. "Rue-chan?" Ahiru asked from behind her, her voice worried.
"I'm no queen of your kind," Rue denied, shaking her head.
The raven looked at her with one ruby eye, then turned its head and looked at her with the other. "You're human, it's true, and your raven father a mere usurper who killed our rightful queen. But our blood yet runs within you, and our counsel has met and determined that you are the most fit to rule us."
Rue's memory spun and presented her with the name of the raven who spoke to her. "You're Melchior, aren't you? You were one of Father's counsellors."
The raven nodded. "I am honored by your remembering me, my Queen."
"I am to become a queen of humans," Rue said, voice trembling. "One queen cannot rule two peoples."
"We know of your forthcoming marriage to the swan prince," Melchior agreed calmly. "It is fit that you wed a human. We have agreed, crows and ravens, that we will accept him as your consort." There was a cacophony of cawing in agreement and Rue looked up to find that the trees and statues and roof were all covered in crows and ravens, black wings folded at their sides, red eyes all watching her.
"You don't understand," she said. "I can't-- I'm not--"
Another raven fluttered down beside the first. "We know of your fears, o Queen. Your father's rule has left us all scarred. We will give you time, and we hope that you will be so kind to us as well."
"Balthazar...."
One more raven perched on the stone. "We need you, my Queen." His caws were scratchy, but his tone soft and pleading. "We are not a nation, not a people without a queen to rule us." He looked beyond her to where Ahiru stood, worried. "We know of your friendship with this swan, and how you have spoken with other birds as well. We need a queen who can speak with them and make treaties. We need a queen who will be kind. And though your father's daughter, you have ever been kind to us."
"Caspar." Rue pulled herself upright. "I am human. I have a brother. I will not abandon that to go again into darkness and pain."
"That we do not ask of you," the eldest of the three counsellors said. "We ask only that you honor the blood within you."
Rue bowed her head. "Rue-chan," Ahiru said softly from behind her.
Rue raised her head, expression firm. "So long as my humanity is understood as well, I will honor that blood and be your queen."
There was an excited cawing from the rooftops, from the garden, from the darkness beyond. The three ravens swept into bows, wings opening wide. "We shall be ever at your service, my Queen," Melchior murmured. And then they were all gone, taking to the air in a rush of dark wings. On the balustrade where the three had perched remained a black ring set with a single ruby.
"Rue."
She whirled to see Mytho standing at the open doors. He looked up, watching the ravens and crows wing away. "Will you be okay?" he asked softly, eyes returning to her.
"I think so," she answered. "I couldn't just leave them alone. Not when so much of what's wrong is Father's fault."
He nodded. "I understand." He stepped forward and reached past her to take the ring from where it lay. "May I?"
She nodded and he took her right hand, sliding the raven's ring onto her ring finger. It fit as though made for her. Mytho knelt and kissed the back of that hand, looking up at her. "I'm glad," he said softly, and Rue suddenly became aware that Ahiru had slipped away at some point, leaving the two of them alone. "I'm glad that you'll have a chance to reconcile the past and make things right, for both you and them."
"So am I," she said softly as the music swelled within the adjacent ballroom.
The wedding day was bright and fair and cold. Ahiru and Fakir woke before dawn, yawning and bustling about their house, eating a quick, cold breakfast before leaving, not even bothering to light the stove since they wouldn't be back until the next day anyway, having been given a pair of guest rooms in the castle since the festivities weren't expected to wind down until well past midnight and then the next day it would be Christmas and they'd be exchanging presents with people in town anyway.... Each carried a small bundle of gifts as they left the house. Ahiru's were mostly knitting, which she'd learned a few months before. She didn't know what Fakir was giving people.
They were separated almost as soon as they reached the castle, bustled off to different rooms where the bride and groom waited separately. She admitted she didn't understand quite why it was important they not see one another before the wedding, since they'd seen one another every day before this one for lots of years, but Ahiru was willing to go along with tradition.
Rue looked more beautiful than ever. Maids bustled about her, brushing her hair, helping her into her dress and shoes and underthings, applying perfume to her wrists and throat, brushing color onto her mouth and cheeks. Rue ignored them all and hugged Ahiru tightly. Ahiru hugged her back. "You're going to be the most beautiful bride ever, Rue-chan," she whispered.
"Thank you, Ahiru," Rue whispered back. "I'm so glad you're here with me." And then the two were separated and Ahiru was bustled into her gown by the maids as well, clucking and cooing over her like mother birds as they applied makeup to her face and rebraided her hair, pinning it up. The one stubborn lock that always sprang straight up defied their efforts to tame it, though, and they finally gave up.
By ten o'clock of the morning they were both ready and at the church. Fakir had come to the bride's room briefly to greet his sister and wish her the best with a soft touch of his hand to her cheek, but it was when he looked at Ahiru that his eyes had glowed. Being Rue's brother he should have, of course, been the one to walk her down the aisle, but Mytho's request had come first and so after debate Charon and Neko-sensei had both been asked to escort Rue down the aisle. Ahiru preceded them, of course, sprinkling the white petals of winter flowers down the central aisle of the packed cathedral.
Everything was just perfect, of course, as she'd always known it would be for Mytho and Rue's wedding. The priest droned solemn words about the responsibility of Man to God, Husband to Wife, and Parent to Child. It almost seemed like no one was breathing, the church was so silent as Ahiru accepted Rue's bouquet and Mytho took the wedding ring from Fakir. And then they kissed, and Ahiru couldn't remember ever being so happy and excited for her friends in her life. And as Fakir took her arm and led her out of the church after the bridal pair, Ahiru looked up to see the three ravens perched in the rafters and smiled conspiratorially at them.
They returned to the castle for a quick private lunch and then a public ball at which the prince and new princess would accept wedding gifts from their people. Ahiru had seen the line, and estimated that was going to take all day. As the bride and groom's attendants, however, she and Fakir were privileged to be first.
Mytho curiously unwrapped the square package that Fakir handed to him. It turned out to be a bound sheaf of handwritten pages. "Fakir, this is...."
"It's a ballet I wrote for the two of you," Fakir answered. The front page contained the title: The Swan Prince and the Raven Princess. "It's from Arthur as well--he wrote the score. It's a comedy. I thought you'd both like that best."
Rue looked up at Fakir with her wide eyes. "Fakir, thank you. I look forward to dancing it."
Fakir gave a nod and turned to Ahiru. He didn't know her gift, just as she hadn't known his. Ahiru smiled mischeviously and went to the nearest window, throwing it wide open. Birds of all shapes and sizes rushed in. Many of them had come from far away, breaking their usual migration patterns for this event and her request. They filled the room and swept into the ballroom as well, perching on rafters, on statuary, on trellised greenlife. And as one their chests all swelled and they began to sing.
The musicians and guests all blinked in shock. Slowly the musicians lowered their instruments, looking at one another as if to say "We can't compete with this." Because the birds were not stupid and knew how to listen to human song as well. They would sing waltzes and reels, entertaining the prince and princess and their guests until sundown. Every bird type Ahiru knew of, and a few she didn't, were represented.
"Ahiru, this is..." Rue said as she walked back over to the prince and princess.
"Everyone wanted to do this for you when I asked," Ahiru said. "Because you're a prince and princess of birds too. I didn't let anyone out, even those of us who can't sing so well, because... well, 'if only those who sang best sang, the woods would be very silent'," she quoted bird wisdom.
"It's beautiful," Mytho said, his head tilted slightly as if to listen more closely to the music. "You must thank them for us. Thank you."
Ahiru put her hand to the back of her head, embarrased. "It was nothing," she murmured, and moved away to let the next in line give their gift.
It was three ravens who alighted on the arms of the twin thrones. "Highnesses," Balthazar cawed, "we bring you felicitations on your wedding day, and our gift."
"You don't need to give us a gift," Rue protested.
"Ha! Gifts are never 'needed'," Melchior replied. "That's what makes them gifts."
"We bring a gift for your consort, my Queen, that he too may understand the speech of our people," Caspar said. A single black feather floated down into Rue's hands.
"Rue?" Mytho asked, looking at the feather.
"It's so that you'll understand them," she said softly. "If you want it."
His hand rested on hers, Mytho's eyes alight. "Of course. They're your people."
Rue smiled tremulously and pressed her hand to his heart, where the feather sunk in as easily as any of the heart shards Tutu had returned to him ever had.
"It's because of that one drop of raven's blood in his heart," Fakir murmured to Ahiru, both of them watching. "That's why they'll accept him and the spell will work."
Mytho looked up at the three ravens. "Thank you, Queen's Counsellors," he said softly, with a bow. "If ever you have need of me, I am at your service."
Cawing with pleased laughter, the three ravens took to the air.
The festivities for the wedding never really stopped but rather melded into Christmas festivities, then combined celebrations for the coronation and the new year. Ahiru and Fakir cleaned their home thoroughly, sweeping out dust, hanging up sprigs of pine that filled the house with a wonderful scent, turning mattresses and reorganizing linens folded away in trunks. They stole a little time to go ice-skating on the frozen lake. And then, suddenly, it was time for the coronation.
They watched with what seemed like everyone who had been to the wedding as well as everyone who hadn't, as the priest led Mytho and Rue through a second set of vows, outlining their duty this time not just to one another, but to God, to their country, and to their people. There were promises made and symbolic gestures. Mytho dipped his fingers in earth, Rue in ashes. Both had river water sprinkled on their foreheads. Heavy, ornate crowns were set on their heads. Mytho was given back the sword of Siegfried, and Rue a nameless halberd known only as "the Queen's." And the priest called down blessings upon them and rose them both to their feet, turning them to face their people.
"At long last," someone said behind Ahiru, barely audible over the applause, "we have our right king on the throne, and a noble queen to rule beside him."
"I never thought I'd see this day," she heard a woman say, sobbing.
Fakir caught Ahiru's hand and squeezed it as they watched the procession go by. "And they all lived happily ever after?" she asked him.
Fakir nodded, his eyes shining. "They did."
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One pick:
"lifting your face to the sun, for the strain was lifted." - you've used 'lift' twice in one sentence. Could you not use 'raise' for the first instance?
Favourite quote:
"if only those who sang best sang, the woods would be very silent"
Love it :D
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Rue as Fakir's sister, huh? That's a really interesting idea and you pulled it off nicely. I like the interaction with the birds, too. And the way each of the character's views are given on various things throughout. It's helpful to get into everyone's head and understand what they're thinking for a change.
Is this the complete end or is there any more to look forward to...?
Regardless, wonderful job. I really enjoyed the whole story from start to finish.
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I kind of felt that Rue got the short end of the stick as far as origins went, and the least amount of closure at the end, so I needed to play a bit more with her themes. There is going to be one more story in this series (that I'm aware of, anyway) but I'm not sure how long it'll take me to write it.
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Question. I thought Mytho was carrying the sword when little Fakir first found him. Isn’t that how Charon was charged with safeguarding it?
“Rue shook her head. “The Raven stole me when I was a baby.”
Charon had the strangest look on his face.”
I read those lines and thought. “Oh dear.” And ya, you went there. XD Fakir/Rue-sibling theory ahoy! Frankly, I don’t really buy it, but you wrote it out very well!
“but she lacked Fakir’s ability to just stare into space for a moment and have the shape of the story and know where the heroine had gone.”
XD HA! Fakir has spidy-sence! . . . I swear I didn’t just type that up. Wow. Need sleep. Now.
. . . But seriously!!!!
Fakir’s now like Santa Clause! “He knows when you are sleeping. Be knows when you’re awake!”
. . . Santa and Drosselmeyer are related!?!? O_o
…Sleep. Now.
“Fakir had a grave. He hadn’t visited it the way he had Drosselmeyer’s, but he knew it existed. Somewhere Lohengrin’s corporeal body slowly rotted into the soil, while his spirit had torn free of the flesh and lingered, its task of protecting the prince unfulfilled. He was Lohengrin reborn to that purpose, just as he suspected Ahiru was Princess Tutu reborn to finish her task of restoring the prince. Individually, they’d failed the first time; only together had they set the story right.”
That was actually a real punch to the gut to read – the fact that he had a grave. As in, in Tutu-verse the knight comes from a story, so there’s no need to even think about his grave. However, in your blend of story and truth there Mytho actually rules Goldcrown… it’s a chilling thought. And you wrote it fantastically.
" The one stubborn lock that always sprang straight up defied their efforts to tame it, though, and they finally gave up.”
MUAHA! Anime gravity-defying hair bows to NO ONE! MUAHAHAHAHA!
done now.
After all that description in the first chapter, I would have liked to read Fakir’s reaction to Ahiru seeing his birthmark. Other than that, I was completely content! Wonderful story. Wonderfully written! An absolute delight to read! ^^