The Sword and The Pen -
Part One
Obligatory Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based upon the Princess Tutu series, tweaking the final two episodes. I loved the series in its entirety except for a few key bits. This is, more or less, what I imagine Fakir and Drosselmeyer were really up to during Duck's and the prince’s last big battle against the Raven. I’ve taken a lot of liberties with the plot, so excuse my dramatic license.
Once upon a time, when the ravens first came, they swept across the town, a black swarm that blotted out the sun.
And in that town, there was a boy who would one day beat them back. This boy, brave but still young, picked up his pen and sought to fight with the only weapon he knew how to wield, an imagination untutored and unaware. With eager strokes and flourished arcs, he told the tale of how he rid the town of the ravens. And so he wrote with such fanciful fervor that his words became true. And the ravens fled.
But not without a price.
The boy, now orphaned by a gift he did not yet know how to use, put down his pen and picked up a sword, finding safety in the steel. Everyday he hefted that sword, swinging the blade in careful strokes and controlled arcs, forcing himself to forget the pen—fickle, feather-light thing—in the solid weight of the sword.
“You are a knight,” the boy would tell himself. “You are a knight.” He would repeat this to himself so often and so fervently that one day it became true. And the boy no longer remembered the pen and wielded only his sword.
And when the crows returned to rain darkness down upon the town, the boy, who was now a knight, picked up his sword and swung.
And swung.
And swung.
But each practiced parry, each well-trained thrust, struck nothing but air as the fast, feathered ravens darted and dodged.
The boy, who was not a knight and could not stand to carry the weapon’s weight, dropped his useless sword. He listened to it clatter, heavy and solid, to the ground now splattered by inky, feathered black.
Truly, the boy was not a knight.
For what good is a knight with no weapon?
From somewhere deep inside the heart of his clock world, Drosselmeyer—more ghost than man, more essence than being—sat up in his rocking chair, his jaw slack and his eyes bugged. “What?” Not possible. “This can’t be.” His grip tightened on the chair as he peered forward to glare into the image revealed to him from within the spinning clock’s gear. “To think the words of true love Tutu was supposed to say,” he balked as he slumped back in his seat, amazed, “Princess Kraehe ended up saying instead.”
He shook his head, not able to push his mind past of the unfamiliar and stumbling block. How could this be? Despite all that she’d been through, could tragic, little Rue still love—not just desire, not just covet, but truly love—Mytho? “Even though she was raised on Raven’s blood and shouldn’t even know how to love.”
Drosselmeyer stood and began to pace. No, no, no, this story just wouldn’t cooperate. This was not his ending at all.
With his gloved hands clasped and worrying behind his back, he paced the grinding, creaking clock tower with the small puppet-child plodding in his wake.
But if it wasn’t his story, whose was it? Who was writing this tale, if not him?
“Always moving, going nowhere. What is this, zura?”
“Quiet, Uzura,” he scolded the tiny, drumming puppet-girl, “you’ve caused quite enough trouble as it is, revealing plot points I’d saved for later and spoiling my fun. Must rethink. Regroup." Drosselmeyer again took his seat in his rocking chair. “Hmm, perhaps the knight will prove more diverting.”
With a flick of his hand, he sent the spinning image of the sobbing raven-girl away, calling yet another gear to him. The old man leaned back in his chair, with spindly fingers steepled and twitching, and stared as the new gear spun, an image of an office forming in its center.
As it was, Fakir was turning out to be quite the disappointment too. Much slower and not nearly as open-minded as Drosselmeyer had been at that age.
But the sulky, raven-haired boy was a descendant—kin—and Drosselmeyer supposed that it was a terrible evil indeed not show forgiveness to family.
So he twiddled his fingers as the image in the spinning gear sharpened to show the pathetically tense wretch huddled over a sheaf of papers piled messily on an old, but sturdy desk.
“Nice try, my boy,” the old man said to no one at all as he stared at the failed knight, Fakir, and the nosy know-it-all, Autor, in their pitiful approximation of an office long since gone, “but you’ll never accomplish anything that way.”
No, no, the weaving of words into worlds was like spinning straw into gold—not any idiot with a pen could do it. But with talent and training—with sweat and blood—even the impossible became as easy as breathing.
Smiling at the gear’s image, Drosselmeyer took in the scene, let the details wash over him. The old writing desk. The shelves stocked stuffed with books. Even the ink pot and pen, stained from use.
Hmm, something wasn’t quite right, he decided. No. Something was definitely wrong. He’d thought the office was a nice setting—the perfect stage—for this scene. A recreation of sorts that circled the story back to its beginnings. But was it merely rehashing the past? Telling the same tale over again? Was his story becoming stale?
He’d thought Autor would make Fakir a perfect companion, a little library-rat to encourage and all but badger him to write. But staring at the jittery boy, clattering chinking china as he perched—bug-eyed—in the tiny office, Drosselmeyer wondered what—if any—purpose the boy served to the story. There was nothing worse—more damaging—than a useless scene.
Enough of this! Drosselmeyer thought as he stood. It’s time to take a more hands-on approach.
“But first,” he said as he shifted to look back at the gear that held the Raven’s image as he swallowed the dark princess—the evil bird's poor, diluted adopted daughter—whole, in front of the still waking prince and the doomed princess.
Ah, Princess Tutu, so beautiful, so graceful, so clever and kind. She was so sure she knew how this story would end. But Drosselmeyer had so much more in mind for her than simply vanishing. He’d see her writhe with pain and heartbreak before he let her story end.
He grinned as he stared at the glowing pendant—the very last heart shard left—around her swan-like neck. Yes, the story’s heroine had almost completed her mission. Almost all the heart shards had been returned. Congratulations, Princess Tutu. “Regardless, you still will be unable to escape tragedy, my dear, little duck.”
If you want to give back that last bit of the prince’s shattered heart, you’ll have to give up so much more than just a necklace. Are you ready, little Duck? Can anyone ever be ready to make the ultimate sacrifice?
Drosselmeyer gave an almost girlish giggle and began to plot, even as the fairy princess tugged at the necklace’s stuck clasp.
“What’s so funny, zura?” the little puppet-girl asked, tapping the man’s arm with her drumstick. “What’s so funny?”
* * *
Fakir stared at the empty pages in front of him as Autor blabbered on about tea or something. This was stupid! Why couldn’t he do this? It was such a simple thing, writing a story—quite literally child’s play—and he couldn’t even manage a sentence.
Idiot.
But every time he tried to grasp at a storyline, he’d see disaster at its end.
He could have Mytho charge the beast. But the Raven was so large and Mytho so small. Fakir couldn’t send his friend into that kind of danger. Not with those odds against him. He just couldn’t.
He could have Tutu—
No. He couldn’t let her face the Raven. She was so delicate. Fragile. Just a girl. Just a bird. Just Duck. Even as Princess Tutu, she was the keeper of the shards, not a warrior. She wouldn’t stand a chance. He was a fool to even consider it.
Damn it. He needed the knight. But the knight was useless, a character killed well before the final act. What good was he?
Fakir sat up and pushed his chair back with an aggravated shove, for the first time really hearing the raucous chaos a room away. “Autor,” he shouted, more frustrated with himself than the other boy, though he’d never admit it, “I’m begging you, would you please be a little quiet—”
“Well, well,” a cheerful voice piped up from behind him. “That person writing at that desk looks a lot like me when I was younger. Could it be?”
Fakir turned, noticing Autor frozen in mid-trip in the doorway before his gaze narrowed on the shadowed figure hunched inside of a grandfather clock Fakir was sure hadn’t been there a minute ago.
“No,” the figure conceded as he stepped out into the light, “I’m mistaken. I would never waver about writing.”
Fakir tipped his head back coolly and leaned against the chair’s wooden back. Silently, he studied the odd, old man pattering about the cramped office. “So you’re Drosselmeyer.”
The old man glanced at Fakir with a glimmer of delight in his dizzyingly wild eyes before he turned back to the book shelves, pulling out texts at random only to toss them carelessly to the floor. “These things all look like what I use, but most of them appear to be fakes.”
“What did you do to Autor?” Fakir asked, nodding toward the frozen, falling boy.
“Autor?” the old man asked. “Ah, yes, some of my greatest work. For all the good it did.”
“What do you mean?” Fakir asked.
Drosselmeyer walked over to the frozen boy and tapped him on the head playfully, causing the boy’s body to fall limp, his top half crumpling from the waist down and his limbs hanging lifeless.
“A puppet.” Fakir recoiled. “Like Miss Edel.”
“And your little Uzura.” Drosselmeyer gripped the air in a mime like a marionette handle, bopping his hand this way and the other, making the lifeless boy, Autor, bob in time. “Of course, my dear boy. You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you? Didn’t think I’d left you to your lonesome, did you? I needed someone to guide you, nurture you. Test you.”
“For what purpose?” Fakir asked.
“To prepare you to finish the story, of course.”
Fakir blinked, confused, at the man. “You want me to finish the story?”
“My boy,” Drosselmeyer said, as he had Autor wave his arms and jangle his knees, aping a warm-up. “I’m old and don’t have the strength I used to. I can’t keep the tale going on my own.” And, though it seemed to pain him to say it, he choked out, “I need you.”
“Me?”
“Or at least I need the talent that flows through your veins,” the old man amended as he made the puppet dance. “That’s why I made Autor here. To train you.” The old man’s hands worked in complicated movements that made the puppet-boy prance and spin with expert precision. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t figure out it was me all along. Didn’t you ever wonder what an ‘Autor’—the German word for ‘author’—was doing in the music department? And why he seemed to always be in the library whenever you were? And how he, a mere character—nothing more than a minor, side role, at that—was able to figure all this out? Knew your past and heritage better than you? Really, boy.” Drosselmeyer made an abrupt pull, making the Autor boy stand up straight with a poking finger pointed scant breaths away from Fakir’s face. Manipulating the mouth flaps, he mimicked the boy’s nasal tone, “Would you please be quiet!”
“Stop it.” Fakir looked away. He knew it was just a doll. Just another of Drosselmeyer’s toys, but he couldn’t bear to watch it.
Drosselmeyer shrugged and released the puppet, causing its dull form to again droop. “Not everyone’s a fan of puppet theatre.”
Just as Fakir opened his mouth to speak, the old man turned abruptly to him, catching him off guard. He flicked his finger at him knowingly, condescendingly. “You’re trying to be responsible about your writing, aren’t you?” With a dramatic flourish, Drosselmeyer threw his arms up into the disturbingly still air. “Well, that’s why you can’t write. You have to understand that when you’re writing stories, you should do it more freely and irresponsibly. Just follow your own feelings.”
Fakir turned his back on the smirking man with a disgusted scoff. “I have no desire to become like you, a demented, sadistic fossil who toys with people’s fates for a lark,” he spat, turning again to the empty pages on the desk. He flinched, staring at the smudged fingerprints, those swirling black whorls the only decoration on the paper. He sighed and ground his fist into his thigh in frustration.
* * *
Drosselmeyer grinned as he leaned in conspiratorially close. “That thinking won’t get us anywhere.” Poor boy, Drosselmeyer thought as he raised his arm to give a deep sweep of his cape, writer’s block hurts, I know. To have the drive—the need—to write racing inside you—bit by bit, eating away at you—only to have the words clog thick and stuck in your chest. Excruciating.
Letting the fabric fall again, Drosselmeyer willed the prince’s image to flutter and fix into focus before the knight’s eyes.
Fakir jerked tight in his seat as his fingers unconsciously gripped the feathered pen as his friend’s image, trapped and imprisoned, flashed before him. “Mytho.”
Good, Drosselmeyer thought. That was a good start. “The Raven has revived and all of prince’s heart has returned to him except for the shard in Princess Tutu’s pendant.”
Fakir turned to him confused. “What?”
Ah, yes, not all the plot points had been revealed to all the characters. Oh, well, the boy would learn to keep up or never make it as a writer anyway. Drosselmeyer continued, changing the image—shifting the rippling picture to leave the prince and follow the Duck.
He settled back on his heels, quite proud of himself, her image so sad and forlorn as she gazed out at the inky black, eerily calm water. “But Princess Tutu can’t give back the pendant. So right now she is suffering.” Her blue eyes—usually shining and so perkily bright—were now so wide and lost that you could see every tear, every flicker of pain, that passed wet and aching through them. Beautiful, Drosselmeyer thought. Absolutely stunning.
Almost giddy, he trained his mind on the boy beside him, smiling mirthfully as the boy’s face pinched in confusion.
“What?” Fakir gripped his wrist in an effort to stop it from moving—stop it from being dragged somehow—over the pages, its fingers still clutching the pen. “My hand’s writing by itself.”
Yes, Drosselmeyer thought, you’ll write my story, boy. One way or another. “You see, you have my blood running through your veins.” Your hand, the old man thought tauntingly, is but an extension of my hand. Your will, nothing but food for mine.
The old man’s eyes glazed over as he retreated further into his mind, feeling the creeping tendrils of tales stretching and twisting together, their power now heightened by the boy’s strength. Yes. “That was the lake called Despair,” the old man said even as the boy’s hand wrote, “and it was dark and deep just like Duck’s eyes.”
* * *
Fakir despised and resented the weak grunts and stifled groans that escaped his tight throat as he tried vainly to stop his hand from writing, committing the deranged man’s words to the page. He looked up at the frail image of Duck, a wispy window built by Drosselmeyer’s will both revealing her and separating them. He felt so helpless, unable to do anything but watch as Drosselmeyer spun his sadistic story. “What are you intending to make me write?” he ground out as he gripped his scrawling hand in his fist, squeezing it so hard he felt the crush of bone painfully. But still it didn’t stop, continuing on unfeeling.
“The sorrowful, yet beautiful story of little Duck,” the old man commented detachedly between lines.
Fakir, shocked, stopped fighting. “The story of Duck?” Not of Mytho. Not of the prince or the Raven. Not even the story of Tutu. Duck?
Drosselmeyer, taking advantage of the boy’s momentary lapse, pushed the plot further. “At that moment, Duck could hear a voice. It was the voice of Drosselmeyer, the man who controlled the story.”
Fakir sat up, trying to control his captive hand even as his mind was racing. Drosselmeyer was projecting himself into his own story. Making himself a character—a voice that Duck could hear—in his own tale. Maybe, if he…
“Duck!” he yelled as loudly as he could, as if volume had anything to do with it.
“Foolish boy,” the man tutted, before throwing his voice back into the scene at the lake—not altogether that unlike a ventriloquist with his puppet. No matter how he yelled, Fakir knew the man was blocking out his futile screams and protests, focusing all his attention on the girl who, at her heart, still thought she was just a duck. “It’s because you’re scared to let go of being Princess Tutu that you can’t give back the heart shard, right?”
Fakir watched as Duck clasped the pendant in her hand, shaking her ragged mop of red hair about. “No! That’s not it.”
“That’s right, Duck,” Fakir yelled at her, still struggling with his wayward hand. “You’re more than just Tutu. You don’t need that stupid pendant.”
“Are you so sure?” Drosselmeyer asked him, staring at him smugly. “Maybe you prefer her in feathers.”
“She’s more than just a duck,” Fakir insisted. “I know she is.”
“Yet you’ve seen what she becomes when she takes off the shard,” the old man reminded him. “She is what she is—is who she is—because I gave her that pendant.” The man giggled as he shrugged. “Without it, she’s just some duck I saw diving for breadcrumbs in some pond.”
“You’re wrong,” Fakir growled, cutting off the man with a shake of his head. “You don’t know her—”
“And she doesn’t love you.”
“What?” Fakir said with a jerk.
“She doesn’t love you, you know. Can’t love you.” Drosselmeyer leaned over the boy, squeezing his shoulders consolingly, mockingly. “I know her heart. I wrote her heart. And it belongs wholly and unreservedly to the prince.” Turning back to the floating image of the forlorn girl, he said, “Isn’t that right, ducky? You’re afraid to part with the prince.”
Fakir sunk low as he watched Duck stutter. “I just want—”
Drosselmeyer continued, grinning as he saw the boy’s hand now slack and passive move across the page, “Rue would be carved into the prince’s heart for eternity because she gave herself over to the Raven. And, by keeping the heart shard, Duck would live on in the prince’s heart as Princess Tutu and not as an ugly, little duck.”
The rippling image of Duck blinked as she started. “Is it—” she choked out, her hand still gripping the glowing stone about her neck. “Is it all my fault?”
Fakir reached out to swirl the fingers of his free hand against the formless figure trapped in the floating image. “No, Duck, no,” he murmured, wishing he could be there with her. Could shake some damned sense into her.
“Yes,” Drosselmeyer, the only voice the girl could hear, told the duck, “it is. And, in order to take off the pendant, you’ll have to lay down your life.”
“You bastard,” Fakir snarled even as his hand continued to write the old man’s every whim. “Why are you doing this?”
“Come now, knight,” Drosselmeyer said, laying one spindly, arthritic hand on the boy’s tense shoulder, “it’s only a story.”
“How can you do this?” Fakir asked pleadingly, needing to understand.
The old man chuckled. “You’re in love with a duck and you’re questioning my choices.” He tsked.
“I don’t—” Fakir started to deny. He gave a short humorless laugh. “I’m not—” But he stopped himself. Fakir had always prided himself as being honorable, honest. And, while he couldn’t honestly say that he loved her, it would have been less than the truth to say he didn’t.
The man’s voice tinkled with merry, taunting laughter. “How do you know your love is even real? How do you know it’s not just one more plot twist I added for,” he grinned as he said, “a lark?”
* * *
Drosselmeyer practically skipped—would have if it weren’t for that damn bad hip—as he caught the boy’s cringe. Feeling happier than he had in a while, he turned back to the girl who was not really a girl, and murmured low, relishing each moment. “Duck began to sink into the Lake of Despair. Walking further and further.” Finally, the story was moving the way it should again. He simply must remember to thank his valiant, little knight when all this was over.
“Stop it!” Fakir yelled, thrashing frantically as he watched Duck slowly descend and disappear beneath the ghostly still, fog-covered waves. “Don’t go, Duck!”
“Deeper and deeper.”
He felt positively gleeful as he watched how Fakir cringed at the joy in his voice and redoubled his struggles—wrenching his arm from its socket, twisting this way and that, trying to clench the pen so tightly it would break—but the pen wouldn’t stop. It just kept writing.
Glancing up at Duck’s image, they both watched as the last bit of her hair, that stubborn strand that stuck up ridiculous and endearing, vanish into the lake’s dark depths. “Stop it!” the boy screamed, his voice cracking past recognition.
Drosselmeyer's grin dimmed for a moment. Honestly, he couldn't. Not even if he wanted to.
* * *
He had to stop this.
Suddenly, something glittered out of the corner of Fakir's eye. He turned at the flicker of moonlight that glinted sharp and blinding against the letter opener’s shiny, silvered short blade. He reached for it, feeling the steeled chains of Drosselmeyer’s will wrap around him, yanking the disobedient limb back. Pooling all his focus, Fakir lunged for the makeshift weapon.
Grasping it, he let out a relieved sob. But what to do with it now? He knew he didn’t have the strength to stab the old man. Didn’t even know if he could kill a defenseless, old man, even if he wanted to. But he had to do something. With panicked decision, he raised the letter opener, its blade short but sharp, and plunged it down hard.
He grunted as he heard—felt—the crack of the desk’s wood as the knife sliced straight through the fragile flesh of his hand and sunk sickly into the solid oak, breaking Drosselmeyer’s spell and stopping the pen. Fakir gave a strangled groan as he pulled out the now bloodied blade, surprised and less than thrilled to learn it hurt worse coming out than it had going in.
Tossing the ruined thing aside, he stood and glanced at the image, so still it seemed frozen. “Duck!” he exclaimed, searching the motionless water anxiously. “Did Duck…” he stammered, not able to say the words. She couldn’t have. It was impossible. But the water didn’t move. There wasn’t a splash or bubble or even a ripple. There wasn’t any sign of her. Fakir’s face fell. “Duck.”
He turned at the sound of the old man’s laughter. “You son of a—”
“Watch it,” Drosselmeyer warned between almost girlishly gleeful giggles, “that’s your great, great, great, great, great grandmother you’re talking about.” Which just sent him into deeper hysterics, falling to the ground and slapping his knee.
Suddenly, he stopped and looked up at Fakir, his eyes still bubbling over with mirth. “You know what I like about you, boy?” Drosselmeyer said, standing up. “You’re interesting. I mean, most of the time, you’re moody and brooding and really much too slow on the uptake, but when you’re interesting,” he paused as his smile widened, “you’re really interesting.” More to himself than anyone, he laughed. “Stab yourself. Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. Good show. Good show.”
Fakir growled as he wrapped his hand with a ripped bit of his shirt. “I’m sick of this.” He got up and made his way to the door.
“And where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, still perched on the corner of the writing desk.
“You’re the storyteller,” Fakir retorted as he bent low to scoop up his sword from the room’s corner, “you tell me.”
“The poor, failed knight,” he said with a wave of his hand, reanimating Autor. Both the puppet and the puppeteer said together, “He finds out that he’s been pulled along like all the others. Just another puppet in my little stage.”
Fakir growled and stalked to the door only to be stopped by Autor, still bobbing as if on shaky strings. He turned away as the familiar, nosy voice said, “You really think you can save her from the lake, my futile knight?”
“Get out of my way,” Fakir snapped, but refusing to touch the lifelike puppet, “and watch me.”
“Come now,” Drosselmeyer mocked from his place on his desk, making Fakir feel surrounded, “you can’t possibly be this dim.” Fakir's shoulders stiffened, making the old man laughed. Thoroughly satisfied, the old man made the puppet move, continuing his pirouettes and pliers around the room, far too confident that Fakir wouldn’t leave. And, just as he’d expected—just as Fakir knew he'd wanted him to— he turned to face the old man. Drosselmeyer smiled and sat primly. “Do you honestly think, that with a name like ‘The Lake of Despair,’ it exists in the real world?” He shrugged. “It’s merely another one of my many stages. A world of my creation. A setting for my story.” Jumping from the desk, he joined the dancing puppet, pulling the bespectacled boy into a only slightly stilted waltz. “Tell me, knight, think you can get there without my help?”
With his face set in a stern grimace, Fakir sighed. “What do I have to do?”
Drosselmeyer spun the doll away and swept his cape toward the clock portal. “Trust, my boy; all I ask is trust.”
Fakir shook his head and moved reluctantly toward the grandfather clock.
Drosselmeyer laid a hand on Fakir’s shoulder as he tried to pass through the portal, stopping him. Fakir looked up at him questioningly. Pointing to Fakir’s sword, Drosselmeyer cajoled, “Why don’t you leave that heavy, pointless thing here?”
The knight tightened his grip on his weapon, squaring his shoulders and shaking off the old man’s hand. “I’ll take it with me, thanks.”
Drosselmeyer shook his head as the boy passed into his world. “So much for trust.”
* * *
Inside the clock, Fakir glanced up at the spinning gears, chugging along above, below, and all around him—the tick-tocking sound grating, making him grip his sword tighter. Looking closer, he noticed that even the floor he stood on was one large gear, slowly ticking around.
“Welcome to the world behind the story, my boy,” Drosselmeyer said grandly, still toting Autor behind him. “I hope you enjoy your stay as much as your dear, little Duck.”
“You brought her here.” Fakir remembered the agonizing hours he’d spent beside the old man’s grave worrying about Duck and what Drosselmeyer might be doing to her. So he’d taken her here, he thought, still looking around, gaping at the images spinning in the centers of the gears all around him. There were hundreds of gears. All spinning sickly round and round, there were more than enough images for each person in Gold Crown Town.
Except the pictures didn’t show the people of Gold Crown. It didn’t show people at all.
“Crows,” he murmured.
“It looks just like the Crow Festival scene that took place in The Prince and the Raven,” the Autor puppet said as it sashayed around him.
“You’ve cursed them with crow’s blood,” Fakir accused.
“Now you’re getting it,” Drosselmeyer said, taking a seat in his rocking chair. “My story’s playing out,” he said proudly before gripping the arm rests angrily, “but not without some difficulties.”
“Difficulties?”
“I never wrote an ending,” Drosselmeyer explained. “It was a story without end. Fated to keep following the same story loop over and over again. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve seen this scene play out. And it was fun, watching the story play and re-play over and over again.” He leaned back into his chair. “And then you changed it.”
Fakir cocked his head. “I changed it?”
“Yes,” Drosselmeyer said, rocking his chair agitatedly, “from the very start, you’ve been nothing but trouble.” He twiddled his fingers. “First that bit with your parents. A child’s attempt at heroics that ends in tragic death. A nice little story, true. But,” he said, stressing each word carefully, “not what I wrote.”
“My parents,” Fakir whispered softly.
“Oh my, yes,” Drosselmeyer commented blandly, “can’t blame me for that one. That was all your doing.” Fakir looked up sharply, but the old man simply held out his hands placating. “Now, now, if it were up to me, you’d have been a grocer.” He shrugged. “Maybe a fisherman.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, gesturing pointedly. “But you had to interfere. Had to stick your quill in where it didn’t belong.”
Fakir turned away. It was his fault. All his fault. Everything. He stared off into the whirling gears stiffly. “You said you’d help me save Mytho, Duck, and the others, so help me or let me go.”
“Suit yourself,” Drosselmeyer said as he waved a hand. Fakir watched as a desk appeared at the far edge of the gear. “Exposition isn’t good storytelling anyway. Necessary, but so very boring.” He tapped his chin. “Where in the story are we?” He thought and then sat up. “Ah, yes. The Raven has given our Duck until dawn to return the prince’s final heart shard to him or he kills the prince and the people of Gold Crown stay his crow-minions forever. But, as you well know, she’s,” he snickered, “drowning in her own problems at the moment.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Fakir asked, warily staring at the desk and the neat sheaf of paper sitting expectantly on its surface.
“Write, my boy,” Drosselmeyer said, exasperated. “What else? Write.”
“I,” Fakir started, backing away from the desk, “don’t know what to write. I tried before and I couldn’t think of anything on my own.” Idiot. Beyond useless, he couldn’t protect anyone.
“That’s because you’re trying too hard,” Drosselmeyer told him, mentally forcing the boy’s feet to step toward the desk. “You’re trying to see the end before you even have a beginning. Don’t think about that part yet. Just write.”
“I can’t,” Fakir insisted as he tried to dig in his heels. “I can’t just play with people’s lives like that.”
“It’s just a story, my boy.”
“But it’s not,” Fakir said, slamming his sword down onto the desk hard before vehemently turning on the man. He swelled as he saw the slight fear in the man’s eyes. Fakir was getting stronger, harder to control. Good. “It’s not just a story,” he continued. “Those people aren’t just characters. This isn’t fiction anymore. They’re real people with real lives who could die because of what I do. I won’t be cavalier about that.”
“Real people?” the old man sneered. “Real people. Do you know how real people live their lives?” Drosselmeyer asked before answering his own question. “Of course you don’t. You’ve lived your whole life in a story, how could you know?” He shook his head. “They waste them, that’s what. Real people wake up, busy themselves all day long with nothing of any real worth, then fall asleep again only to wake up and do it all over again. Over and over until they die. And, all the while, the only real joy in their otherwise bland and boring lives is dreaming of being the hero in their own mind. They dream of overcoming great tragedy. Of beating insurmountable odds. Of impossible tricks of fate that grant them glory and immortality. All day long for their entire lives, they dream about their happy endings.” Drosselmeyer stilled Fakir with a penetrating stare, stealing any strength he might have momentarily had and making him feel caught against the desk. “Real people spend their entire lives wishing they lived in a story.”
“But this isn’t really living,” Fakir argued, daring to stare into the man’s eyes. “Inside the story, we do what we do because that’s what you’ve written us to do. We feel what you want us to feel. We are only that which you allow us to be. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.” Fakir sighed. “Maybe life outside the story is boring and bland, but at least you know that it’s real. You’ve no right to take that from people.”
“I’ve every right,” Drosselmeyer countered. “I created them. I shaped them. I gave them their lives. They’re mine to do with whatever I want. And it could be your right too, boy,” the old author continued even as Fakir opened his mouth to argue. “Don’t you see? You could write the story. You could be real. Be free. Be whatever you want.”
“At the expense of everyone else?” Fakir said disdainfully.
“What of them?” Drosselmeyer waved off. “What are they to you? Players on a stage. Their lives but fertile soil to grow whatever your mind can think of. They’re nothing but clumps of clay to mold your masterpiece.”
“You’re evil.” Fakir recoiled from the man. “How can you think that? They’re people. Innocent people who never did anything to you.”
“Nothing to me!” Drosselmeyer roared, rearing from his rocker and charging the boy. “Nothing! Those innocent people you so long to protect are the descendants of those villainous villagers from my time, just as you are a descendant of me. Innocent! They’re stained with the sins of the past and they’ll pay for what was done to me.”
“That was so long ago,” Fakir said, shaking his head. “Why are you taking it out on others? Isn’t it enough that those men who did that to you have long since died?”
“Enough?” Drosselmeyer ground out through gritted teeth, letting the cursed word roll sharp and biting across his tongue. “Enough? Do you think such a thing even exists? What could ever possibly make up for that?”
Fakir stared into the man’s livid eyes and shivered, tasting fear—metallic, bitter, and cold—as waves of pain and fury thrummed hot and heavy from the man.
Drosselmeyer planted his fists on the desk at either side of Fakir, thrusting his face aggressively close to the knight’s. “Who are you to talk to me of enough? Have you ever had your hands cut off, boy? Watched your life—your reason for being—bleed out on the floor? They might as well have torn out a great singer’s tongue. Hacked off a dancer’s feet.” The old man scoffed, a hard, harsh sound that left Fakir weak and sorry. “They cut off my hands and called it mercy. Told me to be grateful. Said there were worse fates. Do you know what that feels like?”
Fakir bowed his head and swallowed hard as the old man’s tense breaths puffed out deep and angry.
After a long silent moment, Drosselmeyer’s fiercely taut body forcibly relaxed, stepping back to let the boy breathe, even as the intensity, still shining and sharp in his eyes, stayed. “It’s,” he paused, turning away and shutting his eyes, “unpleasant.”
“I’m sorry,” Fakir said and meant it as he watched the old man pace, worrying his suspiciously gloved hands—stroking them the way other men stroked their children. “I didn’t…” Fakir swallowed hard, wishing he were better with words. “I’m sorry.”
Drosselmeyer grinned and turned fast, sliding those hidden hands behind his back. Gleeful again, he murmured, “Don’t be.” With a deep, dramatic flourish, he swept his cape to the side like a matador.
Fakir backed up against the desk’s edge, feeling it cut, deep and mean, into his back. He gasped as dark, cloaked figurines dropped from the higher gears with a screeching whine. Fakir watched as the stringed limbs bounced on awkward joints, much like Autor.
But not, somehow.
Fakir stepped closer, a sick feeling building in his gut.
Autor, though more lifelike than Miss Edel, was still only a puppet—lifeless and limp without its master. But, as Fakir neared the figures dangling from the gears, he saw the limbs shake and fight with weak and pleading fear. He saw them twist and writhe with tired pain. “What have you done?”
At his approach, one of the cloaked puppets raised its head, its hood falling back.
“Oh my God!” Fakir yelped as he stepped back, his eyes still locked on the wide, glassy, pain-filled shopkeeper’s eyes. “The Book Men.”
Fakir tensed as Drosselmeyer laughed behind him, trapping Fakir between him and the moaning shopkeeper. “No, don’t feel sorry for me, my dear boy,” he hissed into Fakir’s ear menacingly. “You really needn’t be.” The knight stiffened and fought the urge to shudder at the old writer’s cackle. “I got them back.”
Fakir tried to turn away, but he couldn’t. He could do nothing but stare at the dangling limbs threaded painfully through with razor-thin strands that jostled and swayed at the slightest touch, causing the flesh they cut through to jump and jerk at the joints beneath the heavy folds of cloth.
Without a word—or even so much as a thought—Fakir turned back to the desk, retrieving his sword. He sidestepped the old man who skipped and frolicked around the poor, hanging, cloaked figures happily.
“Now why would you do that?” Drosselmeyer asked, both amused and confused. “After all, I gave them mercy. I could have killed them. They should be grateful.” Reaching a thin, wily arm next to the boy’s face, he rattled the puppets’ strings, making them groan and wail dimly. “There are, after all, worse fates, aren’t there?”
“Stop it!” Fakir squeezed his eyes shut. Heaving the heavy sword up, he reared back to strike at the strings.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, knight,” Drosselmeyer warned with an amused tut. “Not unless you want to kill them.”
“What?”
“See these strings?” Drosselmeyer thumbed a spidery wire, causing the tightly drawn string to twang viciously. “These are no mere puppet strings.” Fakir flinched as he saw the wire bite and cut into the old man’s thumb, a fat drop of blood dripping slow and unsteady down the thread. “Don’t you get it by now? Nothing is as it seems. Nothing is that simple. Look close,” he told Fakir.
Fakir leaned in, letting his gaze trail the small drop of blood as it stained the silver. Coating the sheen of the metal, the blood made the strings easier to see. Fakir wished it hadn’t. Staring at the red-tinged thread, he saw the stings pulse and beat in a slow, steady rhythm. He knew that familiar beat, could feel it resonate deep inside his own chest. A heartbeat.
Fakir let his sword dip, its tip striking the floor with a tinny, defeated sound.
“Ah-ha, you do see, don’t you?” Drosselmeyer said as he danced behind him. “I knew you would. These strings—long bits of silver and iron-clad will—are woven straight into the so-called Book Men’s black, shriveled hearts. Cut them down and you might as well slit their worthless throats.” Drosselmeyer pranced away puckishly, spinning in time with his gears. Throwing out a careless arm toward the men, who were no longer men having lived so long now as puppets—true flesh-made puppets—the old author said casually, “But do feel free to do as you like, my dear boy. Those old relics have long since ceased being entertaining.”
Fakir breathed heavily. He hefted his sword only to drop it again.
What should he do? He couldn’t leave them like this, alive but not living. In pain and helpless to fight Drosselmeyer’s sick whims. But he couldn’t cut them down either, could he? He’d never killed anyone before—not intentionally. Could he start here with them?
Still dancing a jig, Drosselmeyer flicked his wrist and sent a gear spinning toward Fakir. It stopped and spun in place beside his face, flashing pictures of Mytho and Rue and the crow-cursed townspeople before finally settling on Duck, curled in on herself and seemingly asleep, her hair fluttering in the lake’s dark water. Fakir turned from the men and stared dumbly. “Duck.”
“Please, do make up your mind quick, knight. Remember your little friends still wait for you.”
* * *
Fakir followed Uzura through the portal, still wondering if he’d done right by the Book Men. He’d done what he hoped someone would do for him, if the roles were reversed. But even as he tried to comfort himself with that thought, he knew the decision he’d made deep in the ticking center of that clock would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He trailed the puppet into the fog-covered forest, the dead, barren trees forming a path in the cloudy mist.
“Are you going to save Duck, zura?” the little puppet-girl asked, the sound of her drum echoing in the still silence.
“Yes,” he told her.
The little doll nodded. “That’s good, zura.” She looked around and hugged herself tightly. “I wouldn’t want to stay here. Nuh-uh, zura.”
Fakir turned to the little puppet, who seemed so much like a little girl, and wondered who her maker was. Her true maker. Was she just another of Drosselmeyer’s creations, woven together with words and will? Or did Karon, who shaped her out of the scraps of wood salvaged from Miss Edel’s ashes, birth the babe out of nothing?
Or had the tiny wish Fakir had whispered as he watched Tutu and Mytho dance all those nights ago—the fervent wish for Duck not to grieve over her lost friend that he’d barely uttered in the firelight—sparked life where there wasn’t before?
Fakir stared in wonder at the small child who looked worried and awkward in the swirling haze. He gave her a small smile and held out his hand to her. The little puppet grabbed it, her hand feeling strangely warm in the cold fog. He shook his head. “I promise, I won’t leave you.”
The puppet nodded again, looking relieved. “That’s good too, zura.” Then the puppet stopped suddenly with a jerk. “Oh.”
“What?” Fakir reached for his sword even as his eyes searched the mist and his hand pushed the small puppet-girl protectively behind him. “What is it?”
“We’re here, zura,” Uzura said from behind him, thrusting her pointed drumstick out into the fog.
Fakir squinted and wished the wisps away, revealing the lake, dark and deep, at his feet. “The Lake of Despair,” he muttered, somehow knowing that the first step would—should—take him under.
He turned to the puppet-child and knelt on the ground to clasp her shoulders. He stared into her wide, sad, blue eyes, thinking they reminded him strangely of Duck’s—shining with such innocence. He shook his head, banishing the odd thought. Facing the puppet again, he said, “I will be back, Uzura. Wait for me here. Keep drumming for me, so I can find my way out, okay?”
“With Duck, zura?”
“Yes,” Fakir assured her, touching the doll’s head affectionately, “with Duck.”
“With luck, zura,” Uzura wished in her singsong voice as Fakir stood and looked out onto the vast, black lake. With one last nod to the doll, he took a deep breath and leapt.
You’re quite fond of sap, aren’t you? the familiar voice rang the minute Fakir plunged into the water.
Drosselmeyer? Fakir looked around frantically. His movement slow and fluid in the lake. But no matter where he turned in the murky depths, he couldn’t see anything but black.
Oh, don’t be so literal, the old man scolded. Didn’t I tell you that this was simply one of my stages? That it didn’t really exist?
Fakir whirled, wondering how—no matter which way he turned—the voice still sounded as if it were just behind him.
You can stop spinning, boy, the voice continued. You’re making me dizzy. And you can stop holding your breath too, for that matter. It’s not as if you need to.
Fakir raised a suspicious eyebrow.
Go ahead, the old man sighed. If I wanted to kill you, I could certainly do better than this. Besides, I already said I have need of you.
Tentatively, Fakir blew out his breath. He balked as it came out calm and undisturbed in the water without even the tiniest of bubbles. Fakir slowly, deeply drew in a breath. He filled his lungs easily, the water he felt around him—buoyant and weighty—not hindering him at all. “Why can I breathe?” he asked the mocking voice in his head.
Do you not listen, Drosselmeyer asked, or are you just dumb? The voice heaved a heavy sigh. This is a set in my mind—in your mind too, if you would only use it—it bends only to the laws I choose.
“So if I want to find Duck?” Fakir asked.
Drosselmeyer muttered something stinging and hot under his breath before answering. Simply think of your little pet and voilà!
Think of Duck, Fakir thought as he treaded the waves. Think of Duck. He closed his eyes.
He pictured her, Duck—not Tutu, not the small, feathered bird, but the girl—astoundingly awkward and endlessly prattling. He let his mind dwell on her unruly red hair, her stumbling waddle of a walk, her atrocious ballet, and her habit of charging at problems headfirst and half-cocked. He imagined her, impetuous and unthinking, often causing more trouble than she solved. But, despite that fact, she never stopped trying to save everybody, never let go of the desire to help.
Fakir let his head drop a bit and sighed, a half-smile creeping across his face.
Duck had a good heart, strong and tirelessly kind. No matter what form she took, that part of her never changed. She could always see past the story’s roles. Could see straight through to the real person underneath. She saw everyone as they really were, as they ought to be. And that had nothing to do with magic or pendants. That was Duck.
I’m sorry.
Fakir jerked his eyes open as he heard Duck’s voice resonating sadly in the darkness.
Her voice was weak, sorry and low. It shook so hard he swore he could hear her heart break. I’m sorry, Rue. I’m sorry, Mytho.
He swam in circles, his eyes searching. “I heard her,” he growled into the dark, “why can’t I see her? Where is she?”
You really are hopeless, you know that? Drosselmeyer told him.
“Where is she?” he yelled.
Oh, calm down, the old man told him. You are no longer just a part of the story. You exist outside the tale now. Thus you are not subject to its laws anymore. Anything you can think of can happen. As long as you want it enough.
“What does that mean?” Fakir asked, still tossing his head about ridiculously.
You’re hearing her thoughts, my witless knight, Drosselmeyer exclaimed. You are now privy to your dear duck’s deepest desires. Her darkest secrets.
If I vanish, Fakir heard her sweet, soft voice murmur weakly, the heart shard will return.
“Duck.” Fakir starting swimming instantly—instinctively—deeper, toward her. “Duck, no.”
Better hurry, knight, Drosselmeyer laughed. You may be able to breathe easily in the Lake of Despair, but that doesn’t mean you can’t die.
“I’m coming, Duck.” Fakir quickened his strokes. “Hang on.”
He held onto her thoughts, trying to boost her with his own. But, though he could hear her every thought as it passed painful through her mind, she couldn’t seem to hear him. So, he quieted and simply listened, concentrating on getting to her quickly.
I thought I was doing my best for Mytho’s sake, he heard her inner voice wail. But was it for my own sake? He felt weak, assaulted by the waves of guilt pouring from her. Just like Mr. Drosselmeyer said, I’m really thinking that I don’t want to return Mytho to the story.
Fakir paused for a second when he saw her, lying miserable and unmoving at the bottom of the lake. “Duck?” She still didn’t move. “Duck!” He swam furiously, willing the water’s weight away until he sank fast to the bottom’s bed. “Duck!”
Slowly, almost sleepily, her eyes blinked open. Fakir? She spotted him floating gracefully toward her. Feeling strangely light—as if the lake’s oppressive pressure had been lifted—she sat up. “Fakir!”
He landed on the ground, almost overwhelmed by their combined sense of relief and joy. Swallowing back excess emotion, he allowed himself to look his fill, to assure himself that she was alive and well. “Duck.”
But her face fell under his gaze, guilt and sorrow weighing her down. “Fakir,” she cried, sobs cracking her small voice, “the pendant won’t come off.”
He watched helplessly as she tugged and shook and pulled at the necklace’s chain, but it was stuck. And even from where he was standing, he could see that so was she.
“It’s the last of Mytho’s heart shards,” she told him. “And Mytho asked me to give it back to him, but…” Her voice trailed off as she hung her head.
He saw her turn away, her eyes begin to tear, and recognized the evasion. He could hear her desperate stab at a casual tone, could feel the sorrow and disappointment it sought to hide. “Mytho said he wants to make Rue his princess.”
Fakir sucked in a breath as his gaze narrowed a bit. Not me. Not even Tutu. Rue. Of course he picked Rue.
Oh, poor, little duck, Drosselmeyer mocked, making Fakir wish he could shut the old man out. Poor, little Princess Tutu, fated to love a prince who won’t love her back. And what of the knight who pines after the princess he can never have? What a sad, little story this is turning out to be!
So Duck still loved Mytho. Fakir sighed and shook his head resignedly. He already knew that. She’d loved him all along. It was her love for Mytho that had transformed her into Princess Tutu in the first place. It was the way it was and should be. Fakir knew that.
Does the knowing make it any easier? Drosselmeyer wondered in a wistful almost lonely way. Does it really?
But how could Mytho choose Princess Kraehe over Tutu? Fakir didn’t understand it. After everything Rue had done to him and everything Duck had done for him, he still chose Rue as his princess. Moron. Didn’t he see? Couldn’t Mytho see that he was meant to be with Princess Tutu?
Is he? Drosselmeyer asked. Is that really his destiny? Remember Tutu is fated to vanish in a speck of light the moment she confesses her love to the prince? Isn’t that what’s really meant to happen?
No, Fakir thought. I won’t let that happen. I’ll do whatever I have to, but she won’t vanish.
He’d send Duck into the story with Mytho, if he was able to, but she shouldn’t disappear. Not after all she’d done. She was Princess Tutu and she deserved her prince.
“And I know he wants to save her from the Raven,” Duck continued, still yanking at the pendant around her neck half-heartedly, “but it just won’t come off.” Giving up, she crumpled miserably and cried. “Oh, this is my fault. Because I’m thinking that deep inside my heart, I don’t want this story to ever end.”
Fakir cringed, feeling her guilt like a knife slashing away at his heart. He couldn’t let her continue on like this, burdening herself with such pointless, illogical pain.
She shook her head and swiped at her tears. “Pike and Lilie and Mr. Cat and the others turned into crows, but even after that…”
“Idiot,” he scolded gently as he knelt down next to her, grasping her by the shoulders, “you’re not the only one.”
“What?” she asked shocked, but she didn’t back away like he thought she might.
Fakir smiled softly and gave her a slight shake. “You’re not the only one, Duck,” he repeated. “I don’t want to—” He stopped himself with a curt shake of his head. “No, the fact of the matter is that nobody wants to see the story come to an end. Nobody save Mytho himself.” Fakir shrugged, hating confessions. But, sensing that it was what she needed, he gave her one. “I still can’t write a story about Mytho either.”
Of course you can’t, Drosselmeyer snipped. It’s still my story, boy. I may need you and you may be able to control some things, but don’t start to think you can change what I’ve written. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re this story’s master.
Fakir mentally shoved the old man to the back of his mind and concentrated on Duck. Standing, he grasped her hand in his, pulling her to her feet. “Stop blaming just yourself.” And—though, truth be told, he actually hated to dance, doing it only because Mytho loved it so much—he pulled her into a pas de deux.
She would be graceful here, he told himself, feeling that strange sense of power again as the story flowed into him, through him, from him. Here in the water, Duck could be beautiful. In her natural home, she wasn’t the clumsy girl in the probationary class and who needed to become Princess Tutu to dance. No, here in water, she could dance a perfect pas de deux with him because this was her home. This was where she belonged. “Everyone is scared of being restored to their true selves,” he told her as he pulled her close, forcing her stumbling feet into a hold. “They’re used to being given roles in stories that shelter them from the business of living.” In his mind, he held on to the image of Duck, graceful and light. He clung to that picture until, slowly and surely, in his arms, she became so.
“The real you is a duck,” he said, telling himself as much as her. He had to remember that. She wasn’t Tutu. Wasn’t even really the girl he’d come to know and respect over the semester. She was a duck.
So you finally see that, don’t you, knight? the old man’s voice said. You finally see the truth.
Fakir sighed and gave a brief nod. He did see. “And the real me—” What was he? “In the end, the real me has been protected since my childhood.” He sighed, admitting the truth to himself as much as to her. “I can’t protect anyone.” He wasn’t a knight. He wasn’t even really a writer, just a boy always fumbling to find the words. “But even if that is what I’m truly like, I want to end the story once and for all.” It was the only way to ensure everyone’s freedom. To finally end all this madness.
Think you can, boy? Drosselmeyer asked. You said yourself that you can’t protect anyone.
But I can try, Fakir thought. And I will. I’ll not let you hurt anyone anymore.
“I want to protect Mytho,” he told Duck, throwing her high only to catch her in his arms again, “and you because of my own feelings. Not some role given to me. Even if I use up all of my power.”
Duck dipped her head a bit. “When that happens,” she said quietly, fear and shame coloring her voice, “I’ll go back to being just a bird.”
He watched as her eyes glazed over with memories she didn’t want to forget and a deep longing for the ones she’d never have. “And I won’t ever study ballet with everybody again.” She’d lose her friends, her sense of self. If she went back to being just a bird, she’d lose her life as she knew it now.
How can I let that happen? Fakir wondered.
What choice do you have? Drosselmeyer asked. It’s either that or a speck of light, and even you have to admit a duck’s life beats that.
No, Fakir thought. If I can truly change this story, I’ll change that.
Look at her, he silently told the old man as he danced with her. Maybe she started out as just a duck. But just look at her now. She’s so much more. How can you expect her to go back, after all she’s seen, all she’s done and felt?
Ah, yes, a very tragic fate, the old man mused, but not all tales are happy ones, you know.
I can do it, Fakir thought. I can give her a happy ending. About to open his mouth to tell her so, the old man interrupted.
Are you sure? Drosselmeyer questioned. Will you make her that promise only to fail as you did to Mytho? Would you promise her the impossible just to appease your own guilt?
Fakir grunted softly. What if it was impossible? What if—no matter how hard he tried—he failed her? What if he wasn’t strong enough to save her?
Deep inside, stripped of everything Drosselmeyer had done to her, she was a duck. And he had to face the fact that he may not be able keep her this way, no matter how much he might want to.
As much as Fakir hated to admit it, Drosselmeyer was right. He didn’t know if he had the power to change the old man’s story, not completely.
But he’d make certain she didn’t disappear. He owed her that at least.
Even if she stayed a duck, that wouldn’t be that bad, would it? Sighing as he spun her, he said, “That’s fine, isn’t it? After all, that’s who you really are.”
Duck swallowed hard and gave a brave nod. “Yeah.” Just a duck.
He wished he could promise her more. Promise her everything. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—not if he couldn’t be sure he could keep it.
But he could give her something. “And even after that time comes,” he vowed, “I will stay by your side forever.” He wouldn’t leave her. He’d never leave her.
“Fakir,” she spoke his name softly, her voice low and tearful.
It’s strange, he heard her think in her head, her thoughts so much stronger than her voice. Until a short while ago, I thought it was okay for me to simply vanish. But now, I’m weak.
He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t, but he knew he couldn’t not without raising questions he couldn’t quite answer. He could only show her. So he did, dancing with her to showcase her beauty and her strength. Gripping her about her waist, he heaved her high into the air, giving her—for the moment—wings. His breath caught as he watched her stretch tall and long, as if she would take flight at any moment. And when the moment passed, his hands held Duck again, strong and steady for her.
He heard her sigh even as her thoughts continued, But for some reason, Fakir always makes me stronger. Somehow.
He let out a relieved breath, grateful at least for that. “Let’s go back,” he told her, “to being our true selves now.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said, sounding more sure.
“Let’s compose an end for this story,” he said, thrusting her up into a lift. “Not just for Mytho’s sake. But for our own sakes as well.”
Yes. As they spun, Fakir felt more than heard the moment the clasp clicked. Duck gasped as her hands cupped in front of her, catching the red jewel in them. “It came off. The pendant came off just now, Fakir.”
He smiled at the relief and pride shining in her eyes and nodded. “Let’s return it to Mytho.”
Think you’re on your way to your happy ending, do you, knight? Drosselmeyer’s voice interrupted.
Get out of my head, Fakir told him. He’d just began to forget the old man was there. We’ve beaten your little test, Fakir told him smugly. And we will return the last heart shard to the prince.
Think it’s that easy, boy? Fakir heard Drosselmeyer say in his head, heard the sharp, hard laughter that followed. Then, though the voice was the same, it echoed louder and more menacingly in his ears as Fakir heard him say to both him and Duck, “Despair runs much deeper than that.”
Duck screamed as the ground—the gear—they stood on tipped suddenly, sending them sliding off its side and deeper into the again heavy, watery depths. Fakir slid his arm securely around her. He wouldn’t lose her again. She clung to him tightly, turning only as another, smaller gear sunk and spun next to them, its image forming in the center.
“It’s Rue,” she said, her grip around him loosening as she leaned toward the picture. “Rue, I’m coming to get you.” She let him go.
Oh dear, the dear duck is about as dim as you, knight, the old man said. Does she really think that either of you can do anything for the dark princess there? You’ll both die, drowned, long before either of you can do anything for your precious Rue. Is that what you want?
Fakir held Duck tighter, stopping her. “Hold on.”
Duck looked at him quizzically, but didn’t fight. “Huh?”
Fakir turned away from the image as he gripped the edge of a tilting gear, readying to pull them both up. “Let’s go back.”
Duck balked. “What about Rue?”
It amazed him that—after everything Rue had done, both as Princess Kraehe and as Rue herself—that Duck, like Mytho, could still care for her. Fakir could have let her spin in whatever world Drosselmeyer had woven for her and never given it another thought.
That’s cold, knight, Drosselmeyer chuckled. Wouldn’t have pegged even you as being that heartless.
Fakir sighed. The old man was right. That was cruel. He shrugged. “Mytho will be able to save Rue,” he told Duck, still not facing the rotating gear. “Our job is to save Mytho.” Using more mind than muscle, he heaved them up toward the surface. “We have to hurry.”
Duck, far from sure, nodded, trusting him. “Right.”
Fakir pushed Rue from his mind as he swam them both toward the steady sound of drumming. “That’s Uzura,” he told Duck, thinking only of getting them both back to shore. “She’ll guide us out of here.” And then he’d fix this. He’d fix everything.
