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, there was an old man with the extraordinary gift to turn the fantastical real. He would sit at his desk day after day and spin worlds out of words. One day, he looked up from his desk and down at the world he had created, with its heartless prince and captured crow, and thought, Yes, this world is very good. And from that moment on, he did not spin any other world, content to dream only of that one. Everyday, he would look in on the world that he had created and felt supreme pride.
Until one day, he noticed that his world would no longer bend to his will. He looked down and saw that in his town, that he’d created, was a boy curious and unmindful, who had unknowingly stolen his gift. He watched as the boy spun and toyed with his world, usurping the gift that had once only been his.
“That’s mine!” the old man cried, but, no matter what he tried, the man could not take back the gift and the boy could not return it. So the man, angry and cheated, gave the boy yet another gift.
Suspicious, the boy accepted it, becoming entranced as the gift poured out, all mischief and calamity, into the world.
The old man laughed as he watched his gift flow out, leaving only a small speck, flickering in the shocked boy’s hands. The old man snickered and jeered as the boy stared unbelieving and powerless at his world now ravaged by the trick, because—even with the small speck still left in his all-but-empty hands—what could the horrified boy ever hope to do in the face of such a flood of trouble?
“You came back, my boy.” Drosselmeyer clapped his hands together triumphantly as Fakir again appeared in the portal, Uzura waddling around his ankles.
“I had to,” Fakir said flatly. “She asked me to,” his voice low and his jaw set. “Duck wants me to write a story for her.”
“And now you need my help,” the old man stated, smug and delighted.
The boy’s gaze cut through him sharply. “As much as you need mine.”
True enough, Drosselmeyer admitted. True enough. A story with no end, he fast was learning, was a cruel thing indeed. A masterpiece unfinished. A life unfulfilled. Drosselmeyer tapped his finger against his chin. “I knew you would come back,” he said with a wink. “It’s in your blood, boy. You can’t stop writing any more than you can cease breathing.”
“I’ll fix what you’ve done,” Fakir said resolutely. “I’ll put things right again. But I’ll never be like you.”
He’s here, Drosselmeyer thought happily, in my world. Whether he knows it or not, he’s already half-way there. “You know, I think I knew we’d end up here—right here, like this—from the moment you were born.”
Fakir eyed him warily. “Really?”
“Oh yes.” Drosselmeyer took a seat in his rocking chair. “Did you know that I named you? I didn’t understand why at the time. Such a small detail that had seemed insignificant, but felt somehow right and more meaningful than the moment warranted. But now, at last, I understand.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” Fakir said, irritated.
“ ‘Fakir,’ boy, ‘Fakir’—there’s magic in that name,” Drosselmeyer insisted. “In far off lands where sand ebbs and flows like an endless sea, they were the mystics, the miracle-makers. There was a time when the word itself was spoken in hushed, revered tones.” The old man blinked, flashes of turbaned men walking barefoot across fiery coals, sitting serene on beds of nails, and climbing ropes tethered to nothing more than air rushing through his mind. He breathed deep as if he could somehow take in their power, borrow that power. He’d need it, he knew, before the night was through.
“But since then,” the old storyteller continued in hushed, haunted tones, “the myths and legends have died, withered away without anyone left to believe in them. Those men who were once holy and powerful have become mere charlatans in the people’s eyes. Become nothing but street beggars peddling illusions and lies. Men who claim to be magic, but prove to be worse than mundane.” Drosselmeyer squinted as he studied the boy still half-in and half-out of the clock world. “Which, I wonder, are you, a fakir or just a fake?”
* * *
Without a word, Fakir shut his eyes and stepped completely out of the grandfather clock and into the gear-filled tower. Walking tall and aloof past the rocking man, he settled himself at the writing desk and picked up the pen.
He’d write for Duck. She’d asked him to and he wouldn’t—absolutely refused to—let her down.
With a deep sigh, he set the inked pen to the blank paper. Princess Tutu ran, he wrote, all the while imagining Duck, determined to return the last heart shard to the prince. She didn’t do it just for the prince but for all the people. When she thought about it that way, there was no more hesitation.
She’d said that he gave her strength—and, Lord, he hoped that was true—but he also realized that she, with her unflagging courage and unbeatable spirit, made him stronger too. And because he needed it—so much more than he’d ever admit to anyone, even her—he drew from her and hoped that, between the two of them, it would be enough.
The morning bell had not yet rung, he continued on. Fakir fell further and further into the tale with every word, until he swore—in his mind—he could see, hear, and touch the world as surely as if he were there in it. The prince was quietly waiting for Tutu to come.
As he wrote, a small spinning gear dropped from the topmost part of the tower to churn before him above the desk, showing the tale unraveling for real somewhere far away from him. Fakir spared it a quick glance before returning again to the swiftly filling page. Tutu quietly stared into the prince’s eyes then took off the pendant.
“Are you ready for this, do you think?” Drosselmeyer wondered, his ghostly voice speculative behind Fakir. “Are you ready to bring this story to an end? To make it so the town goes back to the way it was? To make it so the prince and the princess live happily ever—” He laughed, unable to even finish the sentence. “Happily?” he snickered. “Happiness in stories is, at most, a trifling matter of a couple of lines at the end. Don’t you know that by now?”
Happily ever after may not last as long as we hope, Fakir thought, but I will give this story a happy ending. Picturing—weaving—the scene on the town’s street, he saw Mytho, now free and almost whole. In the spinning gear, he saw the prince standing protectively in front of Princess Tutu. Just as it should be. As it would be.
“I will save the princess no matter what,” Mytho said, sounding heroic and brave as he faced the Raven.
Yes, this was how it was meant to be, Fakir thought as he paused to stare, his hand still furiously writing. He and Mytho would save everyone together. They would save Princess Tutu.
The Raven cawed a crazed laugh. “You mean to tell me that it is your intention to take a human girl raised on my blood as your princess?”
Fakir jerked his head up at the image in the gear. A princess raised on crow’s blood? Was he talking about Rue?
No, Fakir thought as he reread what he’d wrote, not Princess Kraehe. Princess Tutu. He wanted Mytho to save her, save Duck. He was supposed to be with Duck.
“That’s right,” Mytho stated strongly, his eyes flashing with determination and love.
From behind him, Princess Tutu—Duck—sighed. “Mytho.”
“Damn it, no!” Fakir growled, glaring into the gear. “Mytho, are you—”
“Things not going well?” Drosselmeyer asked, still lounging in his chair.
“Why isn’t he doing what I want him to?” Fakir asked, frustrated as he scratched out a line only to scrawl a new one. “No matter what I write, he won’t stop trying to save Rue.”
“Yes,” the old man said sympathetically, “I know. The story isn’t going to way I’d hoped either.” He shrugged and smiled. “But I must say, watching you struggle is just as entertaining.”
“Shut up or help me, you miserable, old wretch,” Fakir ordered, still scribbling furiously, futilely, even as he watched Duck reach behind her neck to take off the pendant. “No, damn it!” He couldn’t let her do this. He’d thought he could, deep in the lake’s depths. But he just couldn’t let her give back the pendant. Without the pendant, she’d go back to just being a bird. She’d be left defenseless against the Raven and his army of crows.
Or worse, she’d disappear forever into a speck of light.
He couldn’t let that happen. But Fakir couldn’t seem to do anything but stare helplessly as Tutu returned the prince’s final heart shard to him. He turned away from the gear, focusing his mind only on the pen. But even as he wrote, trying to find the right words to stop Duck’s transformation, the pen continued to write what it wished, forcing his hand awkwardly across the page.
He glanced up again into the gear, seeing shards of light start to swirl around her, her face fixed in a resigned goodbye. “Duck.”
Gripping the pen, he fought to stop it. He tried to picture his will as long tendrils, wrapping themselves around his hand. He imagined them pulling the pen to form the words he wanted. But, just like before, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t.
With a defeated grunt, he looked up into the image, hoping that somehow he’d made some kind of difference. His breath caught and his eyes widened as he heard the deafening sound of the clasp opening before he saw Princess Tutu vanish into an explosion of light.
“No!” Fakir yelled. “Duck!”
Quickly, he concentrated hard and, with a fierce jerk of the pen, forced it with steeled will to obey him.
“Quack!” he heard from within the tiny spinning cog and practically sobbed in relief, seeing the light flicker away to reveal the small, yellow duck, blinking her brilliant blue eyes up at Mytho.
“Thank God,” Fakir sighed, letting the pen write on as Mytho—now restored to Prince Siegfried—fought past the Raven’s army of vicious crows and toward the Raven himself.
Turning to the aged author, Fakir asked, “What good are you, old man, if you’re not even going to help me?”
“What? And ruin my fun?” He shrugged, seemingly content to passively see the story unfold as well from his place in his chair. He laughed and shook his head before pausing to lean forward in eager anticipation. “Oh, don’t look now. What is our dear, little duck up to?”
Fakir wiped sweat from his brow before turning his attention back to the tale. He read the unfamiliar words written in his own handwriting, startled and shocked with each passing sentence. “Duck, what are you doing?”
He looked up into the gear’s image to see that she was flying—pitifully flapping her tiny wings—up toward the prince, the wind whipping from the beating crows too much for her.
Fakir watched as she stumbled—her beak, her body, her feeble, little wings thrown and tossed cruelly as she tumbled to the ground. But still, she pushed herself back up and took flight again. “Duck, stop it. What do you think you’re doing? Get down from there!”
Focusing his strength like he had before, he tried to force her down with his words. He made the wind from the crows’ wings storm across the sky, blowing her far away from the fray. He let his mind target and build the weakness in her limbs, making each flap a weary weight for her worn out body. He dug until he found the doubt in her heart and coaxed it to grow, willing her courage and spirit to plummet. He didn’t care what he had to do, he just couldn’t let her fly up there. She was too small. Too fragile. He had to keep her down where it was safe.
That’s it, my boy. Drosselmeyer’s voice slipped slimy and proud into his ear. Yes, do what you must. Make the story yours.
Fakir stopped with a start, wrenching the pen from paper. What was he doing? He looked at the words he’d written, cringing at the uncaring calculation in them. What was he doing?
What you must, Drosselmeyer answered. You’re doing what you must to get what you want.
This wasn’t what he wanted. Gazing into the gear, Fakir saw the exhaustion in Duck’s eyes, could see her limbs quiver and shake. He watched her try to push herself up again only to collapse, frail and weak, to the pavement. He didn’t want this. He never wanted her hurt.
Even if it saves her? Drosselmeyer asked. Such a small hurt, he said with a shrug, compared to what the Raven would do to her. You could save her life, my boy. She’d thank you, if she only knew.
Fakir, he heard her call out to him with her mind—her heart—the pain and fatigue in her voice horrifying and shaming him.
Fakir paused, uncertain what he should do. If he saved her, he'd put Mytho in danger. If he helped Mytho, then Duck might die. Could he really sacrifice one friend for another? And if he could, which?
Oh, boy, the old man chuckled, kicking his feet in the air joyfully, you are entertaining! Which, I wonder, will you choose? The prince or the princess? The girl or the world?
Fakir, Duck called again as she shakily stood, battered but still somehow strong, we have to help Mytho.
“Duck,” Fakir murmured, awed and humbled by her.
He was being stupid. How could he ever expect to save her by making her weak? He was supposed to make her stronger. That was what she’d asked him to do. Combine their power, she’d said. That was what she wanted him to do.
For you, Duck. Thinking only of her, Fakir nodded his head decisively, picking up his pen. The duck flapped with all her strength, he wrote, decisive and determined, hurrying to the side of the prince. He’d do whatever it took. As if it had sensed her feelings, a gust of wind came to her aid. The words flowed out easily now, the pen flicking across the page with purpose. The crows’ relentless attacks on the duck st—
Fakir’s voice faltered as his hand stuck, the ink pooling out of the pen, blotting the page. Baffled, he tried again to make the crows’ assault stop, willing out the words.
But he balked as he watched the pen begin to write. “—still kept going?” Fakir said, reading his own scrawl as the pen finished its sentence. No, that wasn’t right. Those weren’t his words.
He looked up into the gear and gaped as the crows began to beat down hard upon her again. He winced at each hit, cringed at every strike. He tried to stop them, but they just kept coming in a flurry of razor-sharp talons and beaks.
Fakir turned at Drosselmeyer’s amused giggle behind him and growled. “Help me, you heartless, old bastard! They’ll kill her.” But the old man’s giggles just bubbled up into full-blown guffaws.
With a horrified gasp, Fakir turned just in time to hear her cry—to see her fall—as one of the Raven’s crows knocked Duck from the sky. He watched helpless as she hurtled to the ground. “Duck!”
He pushed himself to his feet, his hand reaching for his sword.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the old man choked out between chuckles.
“I have to help her.” Fakir pushed away from the desk and headed toward the clock portal.
* * *
Drosselmeyer just tsked as he continued to rock, wiping the amused tears from his eyes. “You said yourself that you were useless to protect anyone as a knight.” The old man shrugged, considering the storyline possibilities. “You’d just end up dying in vain, isn’t that right?”
Not particularly interesting, he decided. No, too predictable. Too boring.
But the boy was already reaching for the clock’s door.
“You decided to write a story, didn’t you?” he called to the him, reminding Fakir of his promises.
Even as his hand gripped the now open portal door, the boy paused.
Drosselmeyer nodded. He had him.
Yes—knight or not—vows meant more to him than to most. Honor, Drosselmeyer scoffed, not the most interesting of character motivations, but it would work.
And that’s all that really mattered at the moment.
Nodding his head toward the desk, Drosselmeyer said, “Then write it to the end.”
Fakir growled. “It isn’t helping. I try and all I end up doing is hurting her.”
“That’s because you’re letting your feelings for her cloud your creativity,” Drosselmeyer said. “She’s stronger than you give her credit for, you know. She’s small, but I designed her strong. She can beat the Raven’s curse and win.”
Fakir scoffed.
Drosselmeyer threw his arms into the air with irritation. “This is a battle, boy! Her battle. It was what I created her for. Let her fight it.”
I can’t. He could hear the boy's thoughts rage clear in his head as his fist clenched around his sword.
The old man raised an obvious eyebrow. “Well, not with that attitude, you can’t.”
* * *
Fakir looked up into the gear’s picture. Too much was happening all at once. Duck lay bruised and beaten on the ground, the crows still pounding into her immobile body. The crows had now surrounded Mytho now too, cornering him behind his sword, trying to peck out the prince’s heart. It was all just too much. Fakir didn’t know how to stop any of it, much less change it.
Mytho, looking resigned and aggrieved, shook his head. “Here and now,” he said as he positioned his sword, its pointed tip aimed at his chest, “I will pierce this heart once more.
“No!” Fakir shouted, taking an instinctive step toward the desk. He couldn’t let Mytho do that. It would just restart the tale all over again. They’d all be stuck in this cycle forever. No, he had to stop it. “But how?”
“Was it this hard for me in the beginning too, I wonder?” Drosselmeyer asked wistfully as he watched the boy’s struggle. “I don’t remember anymore.”
“I tried!” Fakir insisted, turning away from the door and slamming it shut. I tried, he thought, and failed. I can’t help anyone. I’m no one’s savior. “I can’t!” he hissed, letting his chin drop. Then, after a second, his head popped back up, his eyes narrowing on the old man.
“What?” Drosselmeyer asked as he cocked a curious eyebrow at the boy. “What?”
“I can’t change any of this,” the boy said, his voice deceptively soft even as a current of danger ran through it. He stalked closer to the old man, his face grim as his hands, still clutching his weapon fiercely, pulled it from its sheath. “I can’t. But you can.”
Drosselmeyer sat straighter in his chair as Fakir approached brandishing the steel. “Didn’t we just go over this? That,” he said, pointing at the sword, “thing is useless. You are not the knight. You never were. You tried to make yourself into him, but couldn’t. If you go back to the world and try to wield that thing, you’ll only end up dead. And then you’ll be useless. To everyone, even me.”
Fakir turned to the old man, thrusting the blade out toward him. “Then I won’t use it in the real world.” Cornering the man in his pitiful rocking chair, Fakir stared Drosselmeyer down. Letting the sword’s tip hover next to the old man’s bobbing Adam’s apple, he gritted his teeth and stated as calmly as he could, “You will fix this.”
“What do you expect me to do?” the old man said, still half-chuckling even as sweat began to bead at his temples and his eyes widened in fear.
“Write, old man,” the boy sneered flatly as he pressed the tip pointedly into the paper-thin flesh of the man’s neck until it pierced, the prick leaving a tiny drop of blood. “What else? Write.”
“I can’t,” the he said with a shrug, trying hard to not swallow as his eyes stayed on the steel still at his throat.
“What?” Fakir asked. “What do you mean? Of course, you can.”
“No,” the man assured, holding his hands out in surrender, “I can’t. That’s why I need you, my boy.”
“But you did,” Fakir insisted. “Before.”
“So did you,” Drosselmeyer pointed out. “Doesn’t mean I can again.” He shrugged. “Too many cooks, and all that. I started this story, true, and it was mine to do with whatever I wanted. For generations, I could control everything in it—the characters, the action, everything.” His eyes narrowed on Fakir, the bitter anger in his gaze making the boy loosen his grip on the sword. “Then you,” he spat out, “began to add to it—without my permission—and I lost control.”
The man thrust his chin out daringly at Fakir. “Now we both can change parts, but not everything. Some parts I control better, others you.”
The man’s face pinched disgustedly and added under his breath, “Mostly you now.”
Shaking his head, he said stubbornly, “Point is, it’s not my story anymore. You’ve changed it. You want to help them, boy, then fix it yourself.”
Fakir let the sword’s tip drop to the floor. It was really up to him. It seemed impossible. A ridiculous twist of fate. Even Drosselmeyer—the tale’s creator and master—couldn’t control the story anymore, what hope did he have? “But what if I can’t? What if I just end up making it worse?”
Drosselmeyer grinned evilly and glared at the boy. “Well, then it won’t be a very happy ending, will it?”
Fakir stared at the desk warily. He’d tried to write. He’d tried to help, but none of it had done a bit of good. The prince was giving up, ready to shatter his heart again. Duck was just a duck again, a tiny bird too beaten to even get up much less save the town.
Fakir, he heard Duck called out weakly to him. Fakir’s attention flicked to the gear to see Duck push herself up. I want to help Mytho one more time.
Duck! Of course, Duck.
He’d been able to write about her since the start. She was the part of the story he could control. She was the key. He wouldn’t try to rewrite The Prince and the Raven. He couldn’t even if he tried. Too much had been changed, corrupted. It was a thing unto itself, unbiddable and unchanging.
So he’d write a story about Duck. Not about the crows attacking her. About her beating them back. Not about Mytho saving or loving her. About Duck saving everyone.
But how? How could she possibly save the whole town when she was so small and the Raven and his army were so powerful? He wanted to turn her into Princess Tutu again, but he couldn’t. Not without the heart shard.
He looked into the churning cog, boring into its image, willing an answer to appear in is spinning center.
Maybe he didn’t need to change her. She’s small, he reminded himself as he watched her pull herself up onto unsteady, webbed feet, but she’s strong.
Rushing to desk, he dropped his sword to the ground, picked up the pen, and began to write.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Drosselmeyer asked, trying to peek at the page from over the boy’s hunched shoulders. With a huff, he looked back up at the gear as the crows continued to peck at the prince’s poor, now whole heart. What was the boy writing? “I have to know. Tell me.”
He paced, agitated by the boy’s silence. He stomped his foot, about to berate him, when he saw it.
He gaped and blinked, unbelieving. “It can’t be,” he murmured, doubt and praise warring in the whine. But there it was, there in the gear’s circling center, perhaps the most miraculously strange sight.
The slack-jawed, old man watched as the small, yellow duck straightened on wobbly, webbed feet, raising her battered, feathered body up into a perfect élever in third. Astonished, he watched the tiny creature begin to dance. In the midst of—in the face of—the crows’ attacks, the little git was dancing, prancing and plier-ing, jumping and jeté-ing, about the square, catching the surprised crows’ attention.
“By God, my boy,” the old man whispered, clasping the boy’s shoulder lightly as he continued to stare at the spectacle, “you’re doing it. You’re actually doing it.” His story—his masterpiece—was coming to an end.
* * *
He heard Fakir’s small, stunned laugh. It was true, Fakir mind murmured as his hand moved deftly across the page, that her dance did not possess the grace and beauty of Princess Tutu’s. However, it was overflowing with intense, powerful emotion that shone a warm light on the hearts of all the people who saw it.
But then he stopped as the startled crows, shaken from their shock, began to attack again in full-force. Frantically, Fakir tried to write, to will, to wish them away. But they wouldn’t stop. “Why can’t I stop these crows from hurting her? Damn it. Duck!”
Drosselmeyer placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders, urging him on. “Don’t stop, boy,” he said. “Concentrate. You’ve let the story stray too far from her. Focus on Duck. Forget everything else and just write.” He watched as the boy put the pen back to the page. “Write,” Drosselmeyer said, more to himself than anyone, as if perhaps remembering a credo long since abandoned. “Write for the person waiting for your story.”
Fakir nodded as he continued on. “Duck,” he said as he let his mind focus—fill—with her. The duck stood up. No matter how much pain she was suffering the duck would not stop her dancing. He winced as yet another crow knocked her to the ground only to have another trample over her. He wanted to stop. He didn’t want to put her through this, but he knew that they both had to do whatever it took to end this once and for all. She willed herself to keep dancing, he wrote, because it was the only thing she could do as she was now. Her tiny body was so wounded that she couldn’t even stay on her feet. Be strong, Duck, he thought. It’s almost over. We’re almost to the end. And yet, in order to guide the prince and everybody else from dark despair to a happy ending, the duck danced on and on, disregarding the pain, never losing hope.Fakir took a deep breath, the end of his story forming clearly in his mind, pouring through his fingers, into the pen, and onto the page. The power flowed out from deep within the duck’s body, unquenchable and inexhaustible.
He looked up into the cog and felt his breath catch as he saw her, proud and tall even in webbed feet and feathers, dancing somehow more beautifully than she ever had before as either a girl or as Tutu. One by one, that power warmed the people’s hearts which had been frozen by the Raven’s blood. Fakir stared and tried to pinpoint what it was about her that seemed different now.
No, not different. She was as she ever was. Rather, in this moment, he was seeing her in a new light. Even as a duck—just a tiny, waddling bird—she was graceful, powerful, and majestic. It didn’t matter what her outside looked like, inside she had a power that shone brilliant and beautiful beyond words. And that power was hope.
“So that’s how it ends,” Drosselmeyer murmured above him, his voice wistful and wondering as he wiped at the wet corners of his eyes. “It’s done.”
Finally.
“It’s done,” Fakir echoed as he and the old man watched the prince and his chosen princess emerge from the belly of the beast. He frowned and sighed.
“What is it now?” the old man snapped. “It’s done. It’s over. You’ve won. What more could you want?”
I promised Duck a happy ending, Fakir thought as he watched Mytho hold Rue close as they descended gracefully from on high. “He still chose Princess Kraehe,” Fakir said.
Drosselmeyer shrugged. “They aren’t story characters anymore. They’re,” he paused, choking a bit at the word, “real now. You gave them back their free will; you can’t get upset when they use it.”
“It still doesn’t feel right,” Fakir said. “It feels…unfinished.” What about Duck? he wondered.
Mytho. Rue, he heard Duck gasp happily, tiredly. He watched her little, feathered head perk up, lifting up weakly from the ground. He saw her eyes sparkle—genuine and loving—as she gazed at the couple. I’m so glad.
After a moment, her eyes fluttered shut as she again lay her head peacefully down against the pavement.
Fakir sucked in a harsh breath as he peered into the gear. “Duck?” Surging up toward her image, Fakir searched, wide-eyed as worry began to build within him.
She was still—too still. Her feathers, usually lustrous and so soft, had been snapped and plucked in places, their sheen gone and jagged, stripped stems poking out at painful angles. Her limbs, lying limp and unmoving on the street, were bent and battered.
Fakir cried out when he saw blood dribbling into the cracks of the pavement beneath her. “No,” he gasped, slamming the pen down onto the paper, smearing the ink. “Duck!”
* * *
Drosselmeyer watched the boy bumble through the portal, unescorted and half-lost as he tried to make his way to the real world.
So that was the end.
The tale was done.
Good ending too, the old man grudgingly admitted to himself, perhaps even better than anything he could have come up with.
Perhaps.
“Yes,” Drosselmeyer said to Uzura as the little doll-child came to sit at his feet, “the boy’s not bad. Flair for the dramatic. Excellent pacing. Lots of action.”
“Oo,” the little doll cooed as she clamored up into the man’s lap, eager to look into the churning gear.
The old man helped her up and looked up at the clock part that, while still turning, spun much slower now. The boy was right. Something was off. The climax was over, but the story was not yet finished. Looking into the cog’s image, he watched as Fakir burst out of the grandfather clock, shredded, useless bits of chipped wood splintering off the abused antique. The boy, unnoticing, ran to the center of town and toward the duck who lay at its heart, dying.
“Run, Fakir,” the little puppet cheered, beating her drum. “Faster, zura!”
“Shush,” he chided the doll, laying a hand on her head before turning his attention back to the boy. “Not a bad story,” the old writer said. “But a lousy end,” he shook his head before adding, “no payoff. Imagine leaving the story’s hero in such a sorry state! He’ll have readers rioting for sure.”
The old storyteller shrugged and stood up from his rocking chair, even as the boy now on the other side of the clock knelt down in the street next to Duck, who had proven to be much more than either author could have ever made her.
“He’ll learn.” Drosselmeyer made his way to the abandoned desk and picked up the forgotten pen Fakir, in his rush, had dropped. “How does it go again? It’s really been too long. Ah, yes. Once upon a time…”
* * *
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. “This isn’t my ending,” the boy said, shaking his head furiously. “This isn’t what I wanted.” Fakir reached down and scooped up Duck’s tiny, broken body. Barely breathing, he leaned down and strained to hear sounds of life. He sobbed with relief at her barely audible pants, at the soft but sure beating of her heart. “Duck?” He held his breath as her eyes slowly opened. “Duck.”
* * *
Fakir. If ducks could smile, Duck thought that she would have tried. It was warm and safe, cradled in Fakir’s hands—the pain a dull, sleepy throb. She blinked and looked up again.
Poor Fakir. He looked so sad. Why was he so sad? They'd won. They'd saved Mytho and Rue and everybody. And that was what mattered. That was what she'd wanted.
She turned her head, though it was very hard to do, and saw Pike and Lilie—human again, thank goodness—gathered together and peering fretfully over Prince Siegfried’s and Princess Kraehe’s shoulders.
Mytho and Rue! They looked so beautiful, dressed up as the fairytale prince and princess. How different they looked! Dressed in whites and golds, in silvers and blues, in full regalia and royal crowns, they looked luminescent as the sun—so bright, it brought tears to her already watering eyes—shone brilliant behind them.
Staring at them now, Duck felt the memory of Mytho and Rue fading away like a dream melting the morning warmth, only to be replaced by the image of the ornate, elegant couple hovering over her now.
So this was the story’s ending.
It was good.
Not how she’d thought it would be when she’d first spotted Mytho dancing alone and lonely all those months ago, but it was the way it should be.
Looking at them all now—the prince and the princess, her friends and teachers, Fakir—she marveled at everything that had happened in such a short time. She’d started as just a duck, a silly, little bird who'd thought herself in love with a sad-looking boy. And because she'd loved him so much, she'd become Princess Tutu so she could help him feel and love again, silently hoping that maybe—just maybe—he would someday love her.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Mytho that had struck her so much—enough to do all that she’d done. Looking at him now, she didn’t know. All the yearning feelings that had filled her all these months—spurring her on whenever she wavered or worried—just weren’t there anymore, had vanished like she’d thought she would. Like she eventually would, she thought as a sharp stab stole her breath for a second.
It was strange to not have those feelings anymore, like being empty and free at the same time. She’d been so in love with him that she’d thought it were enough to just fill her entire life with that love. There had been a time when she’d been sure that was all she could ever need. But now? What did she really feel for him?
He was certainly handsome. And kind. And, really, a very good dancer.
But what else?
She was happy for Mytho. He had his heart back now. He had his princess—his true princess—by his side. And soon, he would go back to the story, where he belonged.
A few weeks ago—a few hours ago—she’d thought that she would cry if Mytho ever left her. She’d been so sure that her heart would break when he chose Rue over her.
But now, so much had changed. Though she would miss him—and Rue—Duck didn’t feel sad, like she’d thought she would. So strange.
Duck quacked in surprise as realization hit her.
She didn’t love him anymore. She wondered if she ever did, really. Had she ever really loved Mytho—the way that Rue loved him—or had that just been the way Mr. Drosselmeyer had written her? Just another part of the story, necessary but in the end false and fleeting?
She wanted to ask Fakir, but even if she were capable of speech, she doubted that he could answer. Not with his eyes full of tears and his jaw clenched so tightly, choking back sadness.
Duck bit back a pained quack even as she cuddled closer into his hands as they gently closed around her. She couldn’t stand to see him cry. Usually he was so aloof, uncaring and even cruel sometimes.
But she knew that underneath all that, he had a kind and brave heart. He was a knight. And he was a storyteller. And there was no one in the world she trusted more. She was glad that he was here with her. For the end.
She only wished that he wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want the last thing she’d see in this world to be him crying. She nuzzled his palm, trying to find and give comfort through the haze of pain racking her ruined form. She wished that she could see him smile. She peeked up at him, her mind straining to take him all in, to bury the memory of him deep inside her so she could have it always. Even when she was gone.
She swallowed hard, her own tears streaming down her face.
If I could live, she thought, echoing a wish made long ago, I’d spend the rest of my life making him smile.
* * *
Fakir watched her eyes shudder shut and knew that she was gone. He clutched his hands as tightly as he dared, not wanting to crush her, even now. He shook his head.
It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t fair.
This wasn’t his ending.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
They’d saved the prince. The Raven was defeated. The town had been returned to normal. It was supposed to end happily.
Not like this.
Fakir bowed his head over Duck, dipping his head over his hands to press his wet cheeks to her prone body, still so soft and warm, and wept harder. He felt her feathers, weak and limp, grow damp and matted under the weight of his tears.
This wasn’t what he wanted.
Where was her happy ending?
Where was his?
Fakir looked up when Mytho laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Silently, they shared a long, sympathetic look, remorse and sorrow shining in the prince’s eyes.
It wasn’t Mytho’s fault. Fakir knew that. Hell, without Mytho, Duck would never have been anything more than just an ordinary duck. Fakir knew all that.
But a part of him just wanted them all to go away. A part of him wanted to rewrite the tale again, to trade all their lives. For hers.
Fakir shook his head and looked away in shame, knowing not even Duck—especially not Duck—would want that. He shouldn’t have even thought it—no one knew better than he the dangers that could lie in an unchecked thought. But the desire still burned, storylines already threading together in his mind.
“Fakir,” Mytho said, his voice surprised as his grip on his friend’s shoulder tightened. Fakir looked back at the prince, who stared wide-eyed at Duck.
Turning to her, Fakir watched as shards of light began to swirl around her tiny body still clutched in his hands. Startled, he stumbled back, his hands releasing her even as her body drifted upward, nestled and enwrapped by the light. He watched, stunned, as her body twisted and stretched, moved and morphed, elongated and emerged from within the blindingly bright light.
And then, as she fell, wingless and awkward, Fakir rushed to catch her. His hands, unsteady and unsure, set her on the ground carefully, his eyes searching every inch of her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.
The girl, red-haired and gangly, straightened her simply tutu—plain but still pretty—as she bent her elbows and knees clumsily. As she tossed her head this way and that, she struck him with that ridiculous strand of hair, stuck straight and stray, flush across his face. “I think so,” she muttered, still wiggling her fingers and toes.
“Good,” he remarked before grabbing her by her shoulders and shaking her. Hard. “Don't you ever do that again!” he shouted at her. “Don't you know how stupid it was to try to fight them all by yourself? If you ever scare me like that again,” he threatened through clenched teeth, “I'll make you pay for it for the rest of your life.”
She looked at him, smiling idiotically at first before pinching her face in confusion. “There's something I don’t understand, Fakir,” she said, tilting her head at him. “The story’s done. Princess Tutu is supposed to vanish.” She shrugged, looking at the prince and his princess then back to Fakir. “Her story’s done.”
She was right. She’d been fated to vanish. It was what Drosselmeyer had written.
A story's birth is a sudden event: the start, a happy accident, the old man’s voice floated distantly through Fakir’s mind, making the boy reflexively roll his eyes. I thought that was all there was—that the best tales could go on forever. But, in the end, every beginning needs an end and every ending is just another start. Not every end is happy, but it is the fate that is meant. And this, he said as Fakir’s eyes took in the prince and his princess embracing Duck gratefully, is how it was always meant to end.
Fakir smiled, looking at the clock and thought he understood exactly what the old author meant. Looking back at Duck, who still met his gaze with curiosity and wonder in her eyes, Fakir told her, “Princess Tutu’s story is done.” Smiling, he nodded at her. “Yours isn’t.”
* * *
“Yes,” Drosselmeyer decided, still watching the cog tick slowly by, “the boy’s not bad.”
The old man leaned back in the chair at the worn writing desk, thinking how right it all felt. He sighed and shook his head. It had been far too long since he’d sat here, he let himself grow rusty.
“To think,” he mused, marveling at how some stories grew even larger than any one writer could ever imagine, “one duck had that much hope.” He shook his head in amazement. “I never dreamed the characters inside the story would be able to change the story themselves.”
Sitting up, he gasped. “Wait! What if it happens that, all this time, I’ve been a character in someone’s story too.” That thought didn’t sit well, the idea of someone pulling him about like a puppet.
Raising an arm, he imagined he could feel the cold, spindly touch of strings woven around—woven within—his wrist, his elbow, his limbs, his body. Was the silvery tug he felt—always pulling him forward, pushing him on—his own mind or the whims of someone else?
He shuddered and sent a suspicious look about the tower.
But then he shrugged. “Oh well,” he said, shoving the disturbing thought away, “even if I am, I’ll just do what I want.”
“Where’s Duck, zura?” the little puppet-girl asked, tugging at his coat. “And Fakir? Where did they go, zura?”
“Oh, Uzura,” the old man said, patting the doll on her head, “you’re here.”
“They left me, zura?” the girl said, her eyes wide and sad.
“Not on purpose,” Drosselmeyer assured. “But this story is over. They’ve no need for either of us now.”
“Oh,” Uzura sighed, disappointed. “Oh.”
Drosselmeyer groaned and stood, straightening his clothes and fluffing his feathers. “Now, why don’t we go to another story?”
“Really, zura?”
“Sure,” the storyteller said with a shrug, another plot starting to form in his mind. “But this time,” he said dryly, “actually be useful to me.”
Uzura blinked up at him as she scurried to follow as Drosselmeyer headed deeper into the tower. “I don’t get it, zura.”
le fin
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