Series: Princess Tutu
Spoilers/warnings: Permanently unfinished first chapter of a story set after the finale.
Wordcount: 3,205
Summary: Life is happy, if not idyllic, for those who brought an ending to "The Prince and the Raven." Until Drosselmeyer's works go missing and the story's origins come back to haunt them.
“1. The true world — attainable for the sage, the pious, the virtuous man; he lives in it, he is it. (The oldest form of the idea, relatively sensible, simple, and persuasive. A circumlocution for the sentence, ‘I, Plato, am the truth.’)”
-Frederick Nietzche, “How the ‘True World’ at Last Became a Fable”
Books were fragile bindings. The pages could be dog-eared, torn, subject to fire turning the parchment to ash, or water turning the ink into stains. Easily lost, easily found; passed along and down the ages. That was the price for their purpose. In order to contain the vast substance within them they had to be paper thin. And the endlessness of their words made it easy for the stories to stray from their message.
It was late, and the Gold Crown Academy Library was quiet. Its keepers had long retired to their homes, and even the stray bats had found other perches. Yet, suddenly, there was a rustling—of papers or something else. A small flame sprang out of the darkness. Its glow illuminated every corner, far beyond the reach of any normal match. The spark danced in the still room, almost as if delighting in its newfound existence. Then, without even a murmur, it dropped to the ground.
There was nothing left except for the intake of air, like a breath escaping. Then the fire began to race along the stacks. Devouring its own path, it spread out in tendrils and began to claw at the books in its frenzied movement. An elemental whirling dervish that spun and spun until it would collapse from exhausting itself. And the books, fragile as they were, crumbled and turned in on themselves as they were devoured.
“Sacrifices must be made...”
Outside, the distant rumble of thunder signaled an impending storm. The rain would come soon enough to wash down on the town. And the flames were already tearing at the wooden terraces of the library’s roof in their self-destructive frenzy, becoming their own undoing to let the rain in. As storm clouds covered the starry sky and streets in darkness, leaving them deserted of anyone who would notice such a spectacle.
Soon, raindrops began to fall as black feathers scattered onto the cobblestones.
The downpour fell heavily against wooden planks of the Eleki Troupe’s caravan. Rue could hear the rain’s muffled thrum as she worked on her stretches. Slowly, she gripped one foot with both hands until her hold was absolute, then moved to the other leg, repeating the process. It was her way of waiting. Mytho was outside with Paulo and Gil, reining in the horses while she was left with the others to try and keep busy.
The other ballerinas of the troupe took advantage of the rain’s delay to relax and chat with each other. They let themselves be swayed by the wild rocking of the wagons. Rue occasionally glanced at them when the wheels hit a muddy spot and there was a particularly jarring motion, as if to see if any would fall. But beyond that, it was like they were miles apart in the small space.
“Are you nervous about the debut?”
“Yes! Do you think you’ll remember everything?”
“Lucky! Getting to dance with him!”
The ballerinas always asked these questions in breathless anticipation whenever they changed programs. But the girls did not clamor for Rue’s attention. It wasn’t because Rue was particularly distant. She had softened since the story’s end, and some of them even found her approachable in quiet moments when the others had scattered. But she was still far from being friends with them, especially those close to Rosalind.
Rosalind was the uncontested prima donna of the Eleki troupe before Rue appeared with Mytho one day, on a rainy day much like this one. The two came asking for shelter because they had no where else to turn to so far from their home, and the troupe leader, Paulamoni, accepted them. They stayed on at first because of pity, with Mytho taking on the most strenuous and unsavory tasks to repay their benefactors. But within months Rue’s talent shone and she was cast as Aurora, while Mytho became a welcome addition for his dancing and quiet willingness to help the other stagehands.
But where Mytho found hospitality among them, Rue saw competition. They all envied this stranger for appearing out of nowhere and onto the center stage, outshining them in her ballet and keeping Mytho’s attention on her. None were more jealous than Rosalind, who had become a bitter rival because of their similar roles, and the older girl felt usurped. The unspoken enmity only grew as Rue remained aloof from Rosalind’s attempts to exert her superiority, and the way Rue, in turn, made sure everyone knew Mytho was hers unquestionably.
The lead was given to Rosalind in the newest production, Swan Lake. She saw it as a sign that Rue’s brief tenure in the spotlight would end. But Rue had other things on her mind during auditions that took her away from their petty competition. After so long, they were finally returning to Gold Crown Town. Yet the closer they drew to its familiar walls the more distant Mytho had become, as if a great burden was beginning to form on his shoulders.
And, really, Rue did not want to fight for dual role of Odette and Odile anymore.
“I’m not nervous in the least,” Rosalind announced louder than was necessary. “After all, I earned the part, didn’t I?”
One of the girls murmured, “But dancing the pas de deux with Mytho, I would be nervous—”
“Mytho is a perfect Siegfried. He’ll make sure Rosalind’s performance is flawless,” Rue said off-handedly. The hidden barb left to be uncovered by Rosalind’s own insecurities. That she needed him to cover up her flaws.
“It’s so kind of you to practice with him, even if you’re just the understudy,” Rosalind shot back sweetly.
“We’re partners, after all.” Her red eyes glinted with self-satisfaction. “That doesn’t change.”
The wagons began to slow and Paulomoni entered to check up on them. She moved with the grace of her years as a former prima donna, and all of them quieted in deference to her. Even so, she always made sure she was close to those in the troupe. And she reacted as if she didn’t notice the change in their behavior, shaking the rain off of her shawl before moving to where Rue was stretching.
The other girls reluctantly began their own warm ups, returning their chatter in low tones. They did not want their instructor to see them standing idle while she was in front of them. Even though Paulomoni never chastised them harshly, the mere thought of her disapproval was enough motivation. Rosalind turned her back on Rue and began to instruct the other girls on their arm stretches.
“Good morning,” Rue said without looking the instructor in the eye.
“Did you sleep well?”
“It was just fine. Why do you ask?”
“I thought you would be looking forward to today. Coming home. I know if I were in your position I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink.” She knelt beside Rue. “Gold Crown is where you said you and Mytho were from, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we...grew up there.”
“You know, it’s funny. I remembered Gold Crown is where I finally chose to stop playing Aurora and pursue this dream. But whenever I try to remember what finally gave me the courage to decide it slips away from me.” Paulamoni turned to her and smiled wistfully. “Like Aurora herself, choosing to leave her slumber behind to meet her prince, it seems my memory was swept away by the waking world.”
Rue remembered quite well. It was one of last days of her own kind of dream, back when she could only see herself as Rue, and not as a daughter and pawn of the monster raven, or Mytho’s princess. But the story had been rewritten and the memories of everyone who witnessed their struggles unfold had been erased. Paulomoni’s own memories of Mytho’s screams as he rediscovered fear and her fondness for Duck’s awkward dance had vanished. Even the memory of Rue herself would have been swept away, although she wondered if she would have made a memorable impression regardless.
“Well! Perhaps when we return I’ll finally remember what it is,” the director mused. “After all, it’s easier to recall memories when you go back to the place where they were made, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Rue said noncommittally.
“It might be different for you, seeing as you spent your whole life there before you joined us.”
“It does color one’s perception...” Rue said as she stood up to meet Mytho, who had just opened the door. “When you’ve always lived close to something.”
The three men had finally found a clearing to rest the team and check for any damages the rain may have caused. Paulo and Gil awkwardly shuffled in behind Mytho, as if part of a procession. Even though the older men lacked the constant composure that was innate in the prince’s stride they were still graceful as befitting men in a ballet troupe. And though Mytho was the lowest in rank among them, there was no question in the way they moved that he still retained something higher and otherworldly about his demeanor.
Paulo gave Rue and Paulomoni a friendly wave before sneezing. “In time for breakfast I hope?”
Rue glanced back at Paulomoni, and tried to show her a faint smile that came more from Mytho’s appearance than any reassurance she felt.
“Rue,” Mytho greeted with a faint smile as he made his way over to her. “Good news. The wagons are an hour’s distance from Gold Crown’s gates. Fifteen minutes for a single rider on horseback.”
“Are you going scouting?”
“Of course. I need to make sure the roads aren’t washed away.”
Rue hated the times he went scouting. Those times were just like before, when he would leave her behind in the castle to fight monsters, where he wouldn’t be with her. It was his duty as a prince, she had come to accept that. But there was always a part of Rue that felt unsatisfied with sharing him with the world. She could feel it lurking within, quieted only temporarily when Mytho whispered he loved her before departing out into the darkness.
“I’ll come with you.”
Mytho blinked; his expression of calm bewilderment over Rue’s feelings was something that remained even after all their time together. “It is only a short distance, I will return after I reach the gates.”
Rue didn’t know how to explain herself. It didn’t matter the distance or the time, she just felt a growing overwhelming desperation that he was drifting apart from her even when he came back. She didn’t want to simply stay behind and wait for him.
Paulo came up and clapped Mytho on the back. “I think she’s feeling a little homesick, Mytho. Why don’t you both go ahead of us? If the roads are clear you can just head on to your families. We’ll know all’s well since you two can take care of yourselves in your own backyard. And we won’t need the horse back until the opening, so that gives you three days to visit.”
“What about the preparation before opening day?” Rosalind spoke up. “Mytho is the male lead!”
Rue was about to shoot back an unkind remark when Paulo continued. “I think we’re prepared enough, we can afford to let them go. Isn’t that right, Gil, Paulomoni?”
Gil, the wiry stage manager, hunched his shoulders and shivered from the clinging wetness. Rue could never distance him from the image of an eel, slinking and curling up in strange places. “I suppose. As long as they remember to feed the horse well.”
Paulomoni smiled at the couple. “We’ll try to manage without you for a little while, my wayward sprites.”
“You heard them,” Rue said in a voice that resounded with her old imperious way of speaking to him. The girls parted for her as she moved to the back to collect her change of clothes and a riding cloak.
It wasn’t long before Rue had Mytho by the arm, and made sure to walk beside him as they went to unhitch one of the horses for their journey. They had changed since the time where he was heartless, where her arm tightly wound around his, guiding him forward under the illusion that he was doing anything more than following her in perfect step. Now it was for his reasons that they traveled. He had prepared a place for her, the pack of food and her clothing, his doing. He even chose the horse—a cream colored sorrel. It wasn’t a white steed, but it was fast and inconspicuous compared to him carrying her off on a column of rose petals.
Nevertheless, Rue couldn’t help stepping ahead of him, pulling him forward as if spurred on by some anxious, nebulous fear. She still preferred to be alone with him, away from the troupe and before the obligations of returning to Gold Crown rose up and surrounded them.
He gave the sorrel a reassuring pat before swinging up on the stirrup and mounting. “Are you that anxious to see Tutu and Fakir?”
Rue looked down, thankful that the hood covered her eyes. “I’m anxious to ride out of this storm.”
Mytho said nothing more as he extended his hand to her. Because he left his cloak’s hood off she could see the way Mytho bowed his head to keep the rain out of his eyes, even if it still looked like he could be crying. Expressions were always awkwardly transient on the prince’s face. It seemed to be something left over from the countless years he spent without a heart and felt nothing.
“Well?” he asked her, soft and undemanding.
Rue slid her hand in his, like she always did before they danced. But this time Mytho wrapped his fingers around hers and used that as leverage to help pull her up in front of him. Like the beginning of their dance, he drew her close to him by wrapping his arms around her waist. They fit well together, her shoulder blades resting against the curve of his chest and her temple resting against his set of his jaw. Even though Rue disliked riding and having to rely on the balance of a beast, she felt perfectly safe leaning against him.
“It will be soon,” Mytho said to her as he spurred the horse on. “Fakir will give us a clear sky when we meet again.”
Rue rested her head in the hollow of his neck and closed her eyes. “All right.”
Indeed, Fakir’s first waking thought was a hazy curiosity to hear the clap of thunder of an oncoming storm he never recalled writing. The slow rumbled died away as awareness came to him. Intrinsic and habitual reminders telling him it was not his doing, as he was sleeping in his bed instead of over the desk as he was wont to do in the middle of a story.
Fakir sat up like a shot to look out at the window. The dawn’s grey was a darker shade from the clouds’ thick cover and he could feel the chill as he threw off the blankets to dress.
‘That’s strange,’ he thought. ‘There were no signs of rain in weeks and suddenly a storm—Duck!’
He had always warned her of rain when they came up in his stories. It was part of his reasoning for letting her read so many of them. As a duck who still held human feelings and an aggravating tendency to get underfoot, he had to give her some idea what to be careful of. Fakir learned early on that she would not quietly resign herself to the peace of the lake and his adjoining cottage. The same rash devotion she had for others did not vanish with Princess Tutu, and whenever possible she would try and see how the lives of everyone else continued without the story. So all Fakir could do would be to caution her of what he could control—although it was never much—and hope she would listen.
Even if at times it felt like he was just telling his stories to try and share with her the life she had given up years ago.
Shoving away the thought, Fakir made a grab for his boots, having finished dressing in his winter gear. He would go to the lake first and see if she was all right. Then head over to the library to see if Autor had neglected to mention anything about a storm in his rounds of polite conversation and his long winded explanations of environmental cues for setting a scene. Fakir wondered if perhaps he was being overly cautious now, but something electrified and unreal was in the air, and it only set his suspicions more on edge.
A heavy thump on his door interrupted his thoughts and he swung it open. “What is it?” he barked, before he even saw who was on the other side.
Autor stood on his doorstep, looking bedraggled and frantic. “Fakir! The library, there was a fire in the night!”
Fakir wordlessly ushered him inside, watching as his distant relative pulled off his glasses to wipe off the raindrops and stare him.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know!” Autor cried, as much helpless in his ignorance as the loss of his beloved books. “There was a blaze in the west wing. The rain stopped it before it tore the whole building down but, oh! The books! I couldn’t bear to count how many we lost, and the ones that haven’t completely burned are soaked!”
“I had a feeling this rain wasn’t natural,” Fakir murmured solemnly.
“Rain? Forget the rain, there was a fire! Someone deliberately and with malice of forethought set fire to the library!”
“I need to get to the lake and see if she’s all right,” Fakir said, cutting him off. And Autor didn’t need to hear more to know of whom he was speaking.
“She is a duck! They’re water fowl,” Autor snipped testily. “Of course she’ll be all right, but the books—!”
“I’ll go with you after I find Duck,” Fakir snapped, using the cold steel of a voice that had once defied their ancestor.
Autor knew that it would pointless to argue with him when it concerned Duck, so great was his devotion to her. So he decided he might as well follow after, twisting awkwardly on a heel to catch up to Fakir. “I can’t believe you. A few inches of rain in the pond is the least of our concerns with all the other strange...happenings...”
Whatever chastisement Autor was preparing to say died in his throat as soon as Fakir flung open the door. For there on Fakir’s doorstep stood Rue, both pale and dark against the grey stormy sky.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to conceal how startled she was to find Fakir immediately before her. “Weren’t you expecting us?”