Tutu

Each step sent blackness rippling around Fakir's feet, much like water. Like water. As he stared down, he could not find more than a simile of liquid below him. He had no idea what it actually was, and he didn't want to keep walking on it, because he had no way of knowing if the surface would continue supporting him. It was plain that he was not being given a choice in his path, however, and he had to fight a not-entirely-irrational fear that he would sink into a fate worse than drowning.

“Oh, well, isn't this so exciting?” A drawl stretched over the plink of footsteps. Fakir stopped, that voice chilled him to the heart, but only annoyance was obvious on his face. Annoyance and pain, as though he was listening to nails on a chalkboard.

“What?” As Fakir said the word, it was a cutting demand for information, but he couldn't say for sure if that was how Drosselmeyer heard it. The echoes of  the boy's voice were too loud, warped into fear and thrown back at him.

“Why, dear boy, I can tell what it is you attempt to do. You know...” Drosselmeyer grew into view, gaining color along with form. “Now that I'm here, I may as well-”

“You may as well leave,” Fakir almost snarled. “Now. I'm not doing anything that would interest you.” It was an honest answer, as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of writing the kind of story that would capture Drosselmeyer's attention, and if there was anything he had less intention of than that, it was allowing the author to lurk over his shoulder as he worked.

Drosselmeyer blinked, rather taken aback by that. Then he burst out laughing, and the edges of his flat white teeth in that purely amused smile were more threatening than any hunter's grin. Fakir knew that the author would stain any manuscript he could get his ink-drenched hands on, even if only in an attempt to read it. “Why would you think I would offer you anything?” He sighed like the indulgent uncle who'd had one request too many made of him. “I'm only here to watch. It's only fitting for you to spin the beautiful story that I could not. I suppose that the older generation must yield to the fresh and fit youth, eventually.”

Fakir eyed Drosselmeyer, anger boiling paradoxically in his cold tone. “Do I have to tell you again? Leave. You aren't going to get anymore entertainment out of us.”

“Hmm? Us? What's this 'us?' You mean you and that duck, don't you? She's the only other one without a story to return to, especially with you trying to make your own story. You'll wander into it, become lost in your own creation's power. It will leave her all alone, won't it? But don't tell me there's nothing to see, because I've already seen it.” Drosselmeyer leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back, and suddenly he was towering over Fakir. He plucked a fist out from behind his back, opening it directly before the boy's face. A pair of gears caught in each other there; their motion continuing smoothly regardless of gravity as they hovered above Drosselmeyer's palm. Fakir stared back with a face set like an oak carving, an art form beyond Drosselmeyer's skills to effect. He ignored the gears, speaking through gritted teeth, “I'm writing a story for people to read. It's not your toy or mine, and if you can't separate stories from reality, then you shouldn't be writing.”

“Why not? Isn't it better to treat the world you spin as real? To give the people in it some properly deserved respect? They can do so much for you, if you just make them do it,” The words skipped from Drosselmeyer, and if his voice hadn't been so deep, one might have said they were carefree enough to trill. Fakir hesitated, taking a step back, seemingly in some hope that the distance would help him decide what to do with this argument. The liquid beneath him rocked with waves and solidified, cracking like glass under his weight, as if that brief pause alone had been enough to cost him all solidity in his head. Light spilled in from below, along with an odd crash and a series of noises that in no way resembled the shattering that he would have expected. Then he found himself in darkness once again; a different darkness, not utterly black but diluted with the sun peeking under the curtains.

*********************************************

Duck winced as a needle of morning light slipped through the reeds, piercing her dreams. Her quack was as weak as a drop of dew rolling to the ground, certainly nowhere near strong enough to dissuade the sun from engaging her further. It edged into her mind, and sewed wakefulness into a pattern of recollection. Today was going to be important, or more accurately, today was a day she couldn't mess up. There was something she needed to do, because whatever was bothering Fakir had obviously been in the way for a while, and she had to go in and put it back in its place. Concentration was etched in the tilt of her beak and the tightened feathers around her eyes as she set out noiselessly across the pond. She even had a plan for getting inside the house. She had taken care to think all of this through properly. Her feathers fluffed proudly as she stepped onto the shore, satisfied with the belief that Fakir would be surprised by what she could do. Really, she did not rush blindly into everything, even if he didn't know that.

After a waddling start, she took to the air. It was a short flight, but it seemed she had a knack for picking landing pads that were especially difficult for a duck; her webbed toes struggled with the narrow brim of the chimney. She was forced to use her wings to keep herself in position as she stared down the narrow passage, but she was quick to gather herself, and leaped in without visible hesitation. There was not enough space in the chimney for her to glide, so once again she relied on her wings, realizing that this had not exactly been the most well-thought out idea after all. The flapping knocked soot  from the sides of the chute, and specks of it plumed around her

She tumbled out of the fireplace, and smeared blackness from her darkened feathers across the floor. Uncontrollable quacking rang out for an instant, in place of coughs and sneezes, until she jammed her wings over her beak. But they could not truly hold it shut, and they actually made her discomfort worse as she breathed soot from them through the slits in her beak. She practically threw them aside, a choked “qua...” pushing into the open before she wheezed a great breath of clean air and flopped onto the ground. Wincing, she lay still she waited to see if the short racket had woken Fakir, but if he had noticed anything, he certainly wasn't acting on it. She ignored the fact that she was still somewhat dazed to examine the room for the door that would lead her into the study. Her eager inspection swept from side to side, before finally snapping to a point directly across the room from herself. Oh. There it was. A closer look revealed a slit of space between the door and the frame. She slid her beak into the gap, and was able to pry it open wide enough for her to wiggle into the room. She poked her head through just in time to miss a lamp's flickering appear from beneath the entrance to Fakir's room.

 Though her perspective was quite different, looking up at the desk from the floor instead of down at it from the window, this was unmistakably the place she wanted to be. The wooden panels creaked under her approach, and a flustered slant came over her eyes as it called to mind Fakir's teasing from the day before. She was quite aware that the sound spread from the age and quality of the floor's construction, rather than her diet, but only he could get into her head like that. That quiet, spiteless mockery really ruffled her feathers. Well, actually, she ruffled them herself when he flustered her like that, but she was resolute in her desire to preserve it for him, either way. She couldn't say why he did, but he would not be himself if he wasn't feeling well enough to tease her. And she knew he would never let some struggles with the written word dull his tongue, her belief in that never wavered for a second, but that didn't mean she couldn't make it a little easier for him to stay sharp.

She winged softly up to the desk, creating a trail from some of the soot that had clung to her, and settled at a free spot on the blotter. Several papers were still scattered on it, alongside the neatly dried quill pen and the sealed inkwell. There would be no using that, even if she had been able to pry the top out of the inkwell, she would probably only crush the feather of the quill trying to pick it up. She would have to use her beak to wield whatever utensil she found. The actual finding would wait. First things had to come first, obviously, and what did it matter if she found a pen without something to write on? At the same time, that was also a much easier issue to resolve. Her bill was not precise enough to drag a single piece of paper from the stack, and she ended up with a clump strewn over the sheets that Fakir had worked on, but she would only use one. Nothing would go to waste; she would just have to try to fix things later.

The pen she eventually dug up was the only one of its kind that Fakir had, most likely a kind of fountain pen. It had a bird perched on one end, which Duck was grateful for, as it was easier to nab for her than one with a round end would have been. Clutching it, she attempted to wave it in controlled shapes across the paper to write a message. Yet against her best efforts, it swerved out sketchy lines and meaningless curls. She kept at it, but the pen itself seemed to have less energy than she did, and snatched the opportunity of a particularly nasty curve to slip from her beak.

She glared at it, though before long her attention had turned from her usual flustered frustration back to the matter of how she was going to do this without the stupid pen. The inkwell caught her eye again, closed though it was. Perhaps it had been rejected too soon. There had to be something she could do to get the stopper out. A glance was enough for her to tell that she wouldn't be able to wedge her beak in to pry it off, and she deflated when nothing immediately came to mind aside from that.

“Are you even able to do anything that makes sense?” The tart demand came from the doorway.

“Quack-” Duck began, only for her own nervous gulp to slam the sound back into her throat. She turned in a series of small, fidgety jumps. Her head was pointed at the floor, but that sheepish gaze was stuck firmly on Fakir. With his face twisted up like that, he looked ready to grab something and bend it to match his expression. She wouldn't have been surprised if he chose her, but she held her ground.

He did not reach out for her, however, or make any move toward her. “I don't want to know why you're here. I just want you to not be here, understood?” When he finally marched forward, it was to open the window for her exit. He gave her an expectant glare, though this was naturally defied. Duck stayed right where she was. His eyes closed, exaggerating his patience even as a slight twitch in the veins at his temple betrayed its shortening.

Duck did not receive any motivation to leave from him. She craned her neck away; a new curious left her partially open-beaked as she peered at the products of Fakir's “work.” The only explanation for why he was so eager to get rid of her that struck a faintly reasonable cord with her was that he was hiding the work. That wouldn't do, not a bit. She padded forward to bring the spindly letters into a clearer view, each step cautious, as if she was concerned about throwing off some precarious balance. She missed his eyes flashing with something, a brief pulse of energy that was not intense enough to be called fear. Ignoring the dark splotches on the bird, some of which were transferred to his hand, Fakir pulled her away from the papers and set her on the floor.

“Just get out of here.” He muttered, and then attempted to ignore her. He took his seat, coolly adjusting the scattered workplace in order to begin. The stopper on the inkwell came free with a pop, and leaked the ink's artificial, wet scent into the study. Duck, who had not left her position on the floor, suddenly had a reason to do so. It could be that the morning's most truly important work would be salvaged, in the end. She darted around to the other side of Fakir's chair, the side nearer to the inkwell, with her wings stretched behind her. She looked like she was about to take a risky dive from a high cliff into some lake, enacting a youthful test of courage as she leaped in the opposite direction against gravity.

Fakir almost swatted at her, but stopped himself. He sighed crossly, but any words that were going to follow came out as a shout that was considerably less than coherent at first. It did manage to shape itself into a vague, “Don't!” But it was probably supposed to have been more than that.

Duck had dipped her beak into the ink, and stolen the paper in front of him for her message. It was sloppy past the point of being decipherable, with the exception of several pieces. A few letters here and there, and one word. “Can.” She could have been talking about her ability, or his ability, or her belief in his, but it didn't matter. She was obviously holding onto her opinion that at least one of them could do something. The duck quacked, the sound more fitting for her small size than her usual boisterous noise. Her almost apologetic glance was soft and bright, something akin to light shining through water.

“Well, I tried,” he could imagine her saying, “But still, it's good, right?” He wasn't totally aware of his own longing, made apparent to him as what might have been nothing more than a rush of adrenaline. He couldn't have said it himself, but he would have taken the chance to trade all the words he might ever make if he could have heard hers. No such offer was made, and he would not be forced to act on  similar willingness for a while yet, but he softened anyway. He placed a finger under her purple beak, frowning gently, “I hope you didn't swallow any.”

Duck focused unsuccessfully on quelling the improbable blush that spread to show through her feathers. With a shake of her head to negate Fakir's concern, she waddled away.

“You should wash it off, anyway.” He stood, expecting her to follow. She was quick to catch on, of course, but ended up having to rush awkwardly to account for the difference in stride lengths. In the bathroom, he plugged up the sink and let the water run to form a tiny pool for her. She hopped in, a pleased quack echoed by the cheerful splash of her landing. She immediately dunked her beak, spreading a black flower as the ink that was still wet came off easily. Fakir leaned against the bathroom wall. “When you're done, I'll leave the door to the pond open.” The remark was absentminded; he was already glancing out, his thoughts in the study. She didn't understand why he was being so snippy today, more so than usual. It stood out even more plainly now that he had calmed down, but retained the distance of his temper. Her head shot up; her beak aimed like a dagger, while her eyes pierced deeper still, or tried to.

Fakir opened his mouth swiftly, most likely to snap at her again, the accusation striking him like hot iron. Something held him back, however, and she couldn't say what. At least he was paying attention again. “Give me three days. Then, if you want to see, I'll let you.” He offered brusquely. She pondered it with care, taking the time to raise her wings at a strange angle and scrub at her beak. At last, she nodded. Despite his tone, he didn't really begrudge her a look. It was harder, after the kind of nightmare that he had, to exclude her from this. Yet this single audience member made his stomach dance with greater intensity than he ever had danced himself on stage, and given his subject matter, he wasn't sure what she would think even if it was written well. In truth, the three day limit had not been request, a nonnegotiable demand for both himself and Duck. She would have been quite out of luck getting him to show her any sooner, certainly.

In fact, she was not completely content with the arrangement, and she told him so with a pointed look before she padded outside, but she did leave. It made her squirm, and she knew she would be wiggling with tension as she waited. Still, if he was going to compromise, then she had to give something to get something. And she trusted that it would be worth this waiting.

********************************************

The sun was setting by the time Fakir had managed to finish anything significant, but he was not particularly keen on his progress, however much of it he had managed. He growled at the paper, but the expression of pure feeling didn't put any more emotion into the words themselves. Thrusting away from the desk, he peered at his papers from a distance. He glossed over them with a look of mild distaste; they could have been a high fence to him. Nothing that couldn't be scaled, but it would probably hurt going over, and before that could even been considered, it wouldn't be simple to climb. Also, it would help if he could make some handholds for himself. There was nothing for him to climb on, as things were. His story was built of numerous words that were too loosely connected for him to scale.

He supposed it came down to Princess Tutu. He was writing about her, but really, there was little he knew about her. Though he could guess that against her own fate, she had been the original story's hope. The book marked her as the one who loved the Prince, and that love was meant to have saved him. It hadn't, in Fakir's opinion, what had was stronger. Not just words of love, penned by someone who only understood love of misfortune, but actual love. True love, he reminded himself, something less easily written in black on white than people liked to pretend. Still, Princess Tutu had been willing to give herself up for the sake of that love, which perhaps said more about her than anything else. True or not, that love had been hers.

The pen tapped against the newest sheet of paper, dry and without ink, as he slowly began to shape what he would use the ink for this time, less wastefully. This character would receive her happy ending, he would be sure of it. The story he would write would be of her return, a story that would take shape around its character to begin, and one that he hoped would mold more gracefully to match her as he continued. She would dance back into the world she had been ripped from, become a part of it again, instead of just a puppet to be pulled on matted webs of string.

He nodded to himself, setting a coldly determined frown, and wrote. The words spilled from his pen in every sense of the word, coming onto the page swift and disorganized. He didn't stop, however, he didn't think he could. His grasp on what he was doing wasn't very tight, but his grasp on the pen was, and he didn't want to let go. He would be letting her go, too, the beautiful figure that he would restore to her proper place. Like Duck, she had never been able to be her real self.

Now, he just had to find out who her real self was.

For the first time since he had begun writing, the focus drew itself in curves along the muscles of his back and arms, and though he was only bent over in a chair, his eyes darted the slight distance from one edge of the paper to the other as if he was following movement. As if he was tracking his newest dance partners feet, learning her steps to intertwine with his own.