The hallway echoed with muted whispering, indistinct sounds wafting far from the ballroom as Siegfried sought to leave it behind. He braced his hands against his back, walking with the speed of purpose, though his frown spoke of more halting contemplation. He almost missed the corridor that led to the palace's private rooms, and knocked against the wall in a sudden turn. He stumbled, his own rare clumsiness shocking a stunted laugh out of him, and continued on his way without further pause. The princess's rooms were the furthest back, set separately to ensure privacy and quiet away from any troublesome bustle. He entered without knocking, but he waited by the door when he did not immediately see her there. “Rue?”

The front room was well-lit, with the torches still burning when the hour called for nothing more than candlelight, but he could see darkness under the door to where she slept. He did not want to wake her. His fathomless eyes quested as he paused for a moment before leaving, taking in the surroundings. Rue's surroundings, really; as sparse as satin-padded chairs and cushions could be, all in proud purples and golds. He had been there before, of course, but it only occurred to him then that he could not taste anything of Rue's own flavoring in the ceremonial royal colors. He skimmed the lifeless fabric with a finger and sighed. It felt as though he was staring from afar at an impulse to burst into Rue's room and return to her, but before he could act on it or deny it, she came in silently. Her ballgown was still on, playing with the light in its folds as she moved.

“Yes, my Prince?” She approached him thoughtlessly, not seeming to be entirely sure of what she was doing. She never met his eyes, instead keeping her own under a half-lidded veil, and declined to speak further. She did not have anything else to say to him, or rather, she doubted that she could say anything good enough for him. She told herself it was her confusion at the situation, which matched his, that kept her from offering something more, and not fresh fear. A selfish fear, when Duck deserved her concern: that if Princess Tutu was back, Siegfried might recall the perfection of the love that had been destined for him.

His mouth opened without any of the words he might have intended, and his hand curled out, obviously wanting to hold hers. She could tell that he held back out of a desire to avoid intruding against her wishes. It was difficult not to be relieved by the nervousness he had for her sake. She took his hand, and pressed gently.

He glanced down and lingered on their connection, but for some reason, that was harder than trying to look her in the eye. “Well... I thought it would be best to ask for your thoughts on the matter, before I offer anything.”

“To Princess Tutu, you mean? What are you thinking?”

Siegfried did not answer, but said, “Walk with me, please.” He led her out, once again going quickly along the corridor while Rue kept pace smoothly beside him. The prince slipped down the servant's side path, and did not speak again until they had traversed much of it. “Tutu does not... have anything, it seems. Her own home is uncertain to her. I thought it might be best if we were to give her one, if only for a time.”

He had to wait for a reply, and he did so willingly. Rue had been upset by Tutu's appearance, in how many ways he could not say, but he thought she might know more of Tutu than he did. She had called Tutu the name of a girl he remembered, but emptily, a face that had evoked nothing in him for most of the time had known her. Duck, the girl, and the bird, who had brought him together. He rested a hand on his chest, feeling the moments counted out under it as they walked. His patience did not have to last him as long as he thought it would have, however.

“I still don't really believe it is Tutu. Something isn't right.” She stopped, and tugged lightly on him; he allowed himself to slowly be turned to face her. She whispered forcefully, “You know that.”

“Yes,” he admitted, carefully laying out the word. That affirmation had been at the back of his mind since Tutu first appeared, and yet he could not have told himself as much without Rue's refusal to waver on the matter. He bowed his head, closing his eyes serenely. “If for no other reason, then, she must stay so that we can right this.”

She agreed, with such confidence that it seemed to close the matter. “That's right. It isn't so difficult to figure out, now is it?” She plucked the hem of her skirt off the ground and, with that out of the way, sped off as well as one could at a walking pace. It did not make things any less melancholy, but Siegfried couldn't stop himself from smiling after her.

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

The hallway looped through all the areas the servants might need to access for work, eventually ending at the courtyard. Snatched rays of moonlight traced the flowers, seeming to reflect from the young woman standing in their midst. She rested, arms at her sides and one foot pointed while the other held all her weight, as though she prepared to spring forward. She stayed motionless, however, as Siegfried and Rue picked their way over petals in unison. He inclined his head respectfully, but the enfolding silence was Tutu's. She would break it in her own course.

“I am sorry... for my earlier manner, Your Highness,” she murmured. Her eyes were kept from any light by her lowered gaze, making them the same shade as the night sky. The clumsy blush over her cheeks gave her the look of a younger, more awkward girl. Rue couldn't help but notice it, as she tried to determine whether she was looking at Tutu, or if she had caught a glimpse of Duck at last. That hope lent her an accepting smile with surprising ease.

“It's alright,” she said graciously, only to recoil slightly when Tutu turned to her directly. She was too quiet, the softness in her face somehow unbreakable for all its delicacy, but Rue found it a poorly fitting mask.

“I thank you, Princess.” Once again, Tutu's acknowledgment was politely sincere, but she remained nervous for the prince's answer. She was trembling, in fact, though she was sure the prince would forgive her. He was so kind, endlessly kind.

“You needn't worry,” He replied. He regarded her kindly, and spoke as if to reassure her. “I would only like for you to be comfortable. You are a guest, and may stay as long as you wish.”

Her mouth shaped a startled circle, facing a gift that she did not know quite what to do with. She pressed her fingertips over the graceless expression, but it was only a reflexive courtesy over uneasiness.  He said stay with “us”, not stay with “me,” she thought, and then blinked, as though that would banish such ideas. She had assumed she would return to her own castle, but both the prince and the princess seemed to desire her presence. She swallowed, and tried rather poorly to disguise an inclination to fidget by smoothing her skirt. Her smile was strong, but almost more unexpectedly raw strength than happiness. “That is most generous, Prince... Thank you, I will be glad to remain.”

“Excellent.” Rue seemed to be talking more to Siegfried than to Tutu, though she watched the other princess steadily, and with something that might have been described as longing. Whatever she was waiting for did not appear, however, and she turned away, releasing a breath too small to be called a sigh. “I hope that we can become well-acquainted.”

Siegfried did not reach out to comfort her, though she must have been pulled thin to speak with such a taut tone. He promised himself that he would walk back with her, though, and stay with her longer if she seemed to need it. Whether she acknowledged the need or not, he told himself privately. Outwardly,  he addressed the other ballerina.

“It is an honor...”  “Princess Tutu.”

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

Each twitch of Drosselmeyer's gaze rested on a different gear, but despite the number of parts, there was only a shell of a complete contraption. The days had gone by, yet pieces popped into being far from others and spun alone, and just a few of those that ran together had a steady rhythm, while the rest were jammed with tangible reluctance. The author wondered quietly at the sorry state of it all, “Isn't this just terrible? I know the boy is a bit green behind the ears, but really.” He shook his head. Presumably, it was meant to have been a despairing gesture, but his grin threw off the intent.

He trotted forward, into the main interlocking sections, always managing to duck his head at the right moment to avoid losing it when something sharp stuck out. The motion of one gear ripped a feather that had been unfortunate enough to become tangled from his hat. He blinked owlishly, and shrugged, if anything being further amused by the loss, and bent backward at a wild angle to inspect the gears above him.

“Ah, but this is tiresome.” He pivoted upright, brushing nothingness off himself, and twirling on the tips of his toes to sigh at the machinery. “Perhaps...” He blinked rapidly, as though unable to stand flashes of his own brilliance.

“I promised the boy that I wouldn't interfere, so I will not.” He chuckled, “But he can do all the manipulating he wants, and to... whomever he choose, of course.” He whipped around, prancing forward just fast enough to avoid having his cloak caught in the gears. A crank had obligingly appeared in front of him, though it did not have anything supporting it, much less connected to it. This world paid attention to gravity only for the sake of convenience, if at all. Drosselmeyer took advantage of the strange freedom, bringing the crank around with a neat flip. His entire body stretched, the tips of his toes marking out the circumference of a circle, part of which extended past the apparent ground he had been standing on. After landing noiselessly on that same ground, he gave it one or two extra turns, simply for good measure and certainty. The gears that could spin spun faster, and what existed of the story accelerated along with them.

Drosselmeyer settled back, confident pleasure rising in him. “Now, of all the stories I've told, I'll see where this one takes me...”

****************************************
The tip of the blade extended in a sweeping arc, following the cycle of Fakir's breath. The hilt fit into his palm with the familiarity of constant practice, but he couldn't even say why he had picked it up that morning after months of disuse. Perhaps it was simply a desire to move overpowering him; his limbs were drowning in stagnant energy from three days spent at a desk. Other suspicious motives were only faint bitterness around the edge of his mouth. The routine kept his focus elsewhere, the ferocity of each stroke occupying his mind fully. He pulled the sword close to his body as naturally as he would air into his lungs, and exhaled a clean lunge. The thrust caught nothing on its end, but he reclaimed it to strike another blow against his invisible target. A sharp knock punctuated the hit, despite the lack of anything to receive it.

He paused, but pushed away the distraction with a fresh strike instead of lowering the blade. His heel supported a turn, the level sword reaching in a hemisphere around him again. He shortened a forward leap to avoid piercing the wall, and twisted his wrists to carry the tip of the blade up in an underhand stroke. The knock was forgotten as he pivoted again, every corner of him thoroughly devoted to motion and free of irritations or more serious troubles. Even an abrupt series of raps demanding his attention did not send any pressure running through him.

“Fakir! Where are you? You scheduled this, not me.” Autor's shout swelled down the short hall from the front door. Fakir closed his eyes, sealing a portion of his recovered patience, and returned the sword  to its scabbard. He rested the weapon against the wall with a clack of finality, and yelled back, “I'm coming!” The knocking stopped, as though the sword had been taken to the sound instead of set aside.

When he swung the front door open, a smug expression had pressed all but a hint of exasperation from Autor. “Oh, there you are. Why did you keep me waiting?” He seemed to expect an answer, even if he didn't wait for one, slipping awkwardly around Fakir into the house.

“I was... taking a break.” Fakir stepped back in front, leading the other boy through the house. He obviously had no intention to dwell on the matter, but Autor's surprise did not stop him from questioning it.

“To do what?”

Fakir stopped as they crossed through the first room. His foreboding tone matched his posture, but he did not seem tense. He shrugged after a moment, apparently careless, but he still had quite the acidic cast. “Exercise. That's all.” He glared back at Autor. “Is that good enough for you?”

The musician did not receive the cutting look, inadvertently dodging it as he inspected the room. The sword caught his eye, and he nodded to it. “Ah, so you're been practicing. But I thought the whole point of this was to avoid that.”

“It is,” Fakir replied, quietly, but without any trace of softness.

Autor peered shrewdly over the top of his glasses. “Why bother, then? Unless you think you'll need it. Are we going to dash into battle to save your distressed damsel?”

Fakir whirled, eyes opening uncommonly wide, and hissed, “No!” The words brought a cold, ghostly grip to his shoulder, and though it did remind him of a certain figure, he couldn't truly name what it belonged to. If something happened to Duck, with all the writing he'd been doing, he would have had no choice but to spell it out himself in his story. He was unflinchingly sure that something would happen, however, if he did not pull her back soon. He would write the words to counter it, but he did not want to let this wind in on itself anymore, and so he would strike a decisive blow against the bud before the thorns grew. In fact, he told himself it was too simple to bother over. There was no other option available to him, and he would not falter. He released all his air in a swift breath, and snapped, “It's nothing like that.”

“Is that so?” Autor's smile was coldly wry. “Have you ever thought about just what a good distressed damsel Tutu really would make?” Fakir shook his head impatiently, not being interested in remarking on the unsettling concept. He regarded Autor with a new hint of wariness, and finally seemed to have abandoned the conversation as undeserving of his energy. He spun away, but Autor continued blithely. “Alright. Well, maybe I can be the dashing hero this time. Do you think I'm an ordinary enough high school student for it?”

“This isn't some adventure!”

“Then what is it?”

Autor picked up a poker from beside the fireplace thoughtfully, swishing it back and forth. His agility was greater than one would have expected when he jumped at Fakir with it, though it was clear that he was not really trying to hit the other boy. The former knight's glowering suddenly flared into crackling anger. For all Autor's knowledge, did his icy impracticality keep him from understanding anything at all? This was ridiculous. In less time than it would have taken Autor to drop the poker himself, Fakir had snatched the blade, still in its scabbard, and he lashed out at the musician's wrist with the brief power of a fanned flame. When it receded, Autor rubbed his stinging wrist as the tool had clattered down. Fakir demanded,“Have you ever even held a sword before?”

There wasn't much Autor could do but glance aside and mutter, “Well, no...”

“Then don't go leaping into situations that could get you killed. Not that you'll have a chance to,” Fakir said, more definitely than he felt. He paused, then relented. “Look, as far as I'm concerned, if we have time for a sightseeing trip, go ahead and take one. But only if we have time.” He did have to acknowledge Autor's help, if grudgingly. Je had worked tirelessly in the interest of perfecting Fakir's work to the required level. Setting the sword down, he added a final note of caution. “We aren't going to get involved in anything, though.”

Autor sighed, and nodded. He cast his wrist a faintly annoyed look, as if it was the limbs fault that it ached. He had not been entirely serious, but then, it had been far from a complete joke. “Fine. How about we just get ourselves where we need to be?” Fakir waved an inviting hand at the door of the study, his mouth still a tight line even as he agreed.

Autor opened it, and gasped, “So, you're still around?”

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

Drosselmeyer stared at them, tilting his head wildly. Then, ignoring such trivial things as unknown means of magical transportation, he made himself at home in Fakir's chair. “Oh, hello, boys. Lovely to see you again.”

Fakir replied in a breathless growl, “What are you doing here?” He did not especially care for any answer, because he knew he would not like it, but he had to at least count it as a kind of preparation, for whatever action he would choose to take.

“Well, I'm not sure. Isn't it delightful?” Drosselmeyer drawled, and immediately popped to his feet again, leaping forward to stand directly before them. They both stepped away from the doorway on either side of him, as if to flank him, but he hardly seemed to feel trapped. He beamed. “But I just thought I would stop by to see how you were doing, hmm?”

Autor crossed his arms, tilting his head at a decidedly more sane angle. He regarded Drosselmeyer with reluctant respect, but his thin smile was uninterrupted. He took a step forward, and the author faced him with a shallow, mocking bow. “Yes, boy?”

“Well, I was just wondering what you thought of our story,” Autor sounded perfectly humble, but Fakir didn't miss his pride, and sent him an unpleasant look over Drosselmeyer's shoulder. He ignored it, waiting contentedly as if the reply was foregone.

“Not much has happened, has it? Perhaps you need a little help.” The old man sniffed haughtily. “You can't make a story out of grammatical corrections, you know.”

“I've done more than-!” Autor shouted, only to be cut off as Fakir stepped between them. He tried to push around the other boy, but Fakir was unshakeable, and Autor's brow lowered in sharp frustration. He might have felt betrayed, because for all his faults, Drosselmeyer was still the most skilled writer he had ever read. It was his own life's work, no matter how short that had been so far, to match it. He could not have asked for that kind of recognition, but he had not thought to be so brutally shot down. He sneered, unearthing a comment that probably should have been left buried. “At least I was never beaten by my own characters. What kind of writer lacks that kind of control?”

“Autor, shut up,” Fakir instructed calmly. If Autor's taunt had gotten to him along as its intended target, he didn't show it.

In fact, the intended target was equally unfazed, coughing pointedly, “Now, you see, about that... Don't you think it's time something is done?” He fixed Fakir with a stern glare. “Here, you're still taking this much, much too seriously. Relax, have fun with it!” Drosselmeyer chirped, and leaned close with a carefree wave of his hands. He whispered right into Fakir's ear.

“If it's too much if a problem for you, I do think I can come up with something. I hope you'll thank me properly.”

Fakir stared straight back at him, their reflections bouncing back between each others' eyes, and eventually ripped away. His voice was low and burnt-out. “Enough.”

Drosselmeyer was dangerous, even now, and he had held free rein over all of them for too long. Fakir was past the point of tolerating it, but he would prove beyond anyone's doubt, including his own, that he could master this craft. A peculiar bitterness crept over him, and despite his surety that he had made it somehow, it seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Somewhere else was the only good place for the author to be, too, he decided darkly. In that same somewhere else where the hatred of him had been born. He closed his eyes resolutely, summoning up the strength to send Drosselmeyer there as he roughly pushed the chair away from the desk. He did not even bother to sit down, but merely wrote as he was, and the words leaped to him so easily that he could have been watching them in a circus performance. They seemed to be having enough fun for that themselves as his writing became more intense.

“Fakir, what are you writing?” Autor peeked over the young writer's shoulder quizzically, scanning the words with methodical speed. His frown deepened as he read, and he said nervously, “That might not be such a good idea.” But he didn't even know if Fakir could hear him.

That spider has no castle of his own. He spins his tragic web, and perhaps other spiders would follow along, but no one else. He would not find it such any easy thing to bend others to his stories, now that he was out of reach of any story's creation and powerless to interfere in the course of writing. His words would never hurt anyone anymore...

He wrote on, detailing the spider's domain, and strongly wishing that he could have squashed Drosselmeyer out of existence as easily as a literal arachnid. The old man's face changed, he stared at his hands and began to chortle eagerly. He hopped neatly, three times, and accented each neat motion with a clap, until at last he landed, pressing his heels together. His cloak swirled, taking up most of the small study, and he swept low in a bow. “Haha, how very interesting, indeed. Thank you... Fakir, isn't it...?” He seemed to dissipate, before he was even able to straighten.

Drosselmeyer was truly gone.

That gratitude had chilled Fakir's excitement, helping it to slowly fade. He sank back into the chair, trembling and panting with the exertion of a swift runner. He braced his knuckles against the desk, and kept them in place long after they had turned white. He did not have anything like relief in his heart, just a frightening satisfaction, self-directed fear, rough-hewn determination. Autor pulled his swimming head above the surface.

“That was quite impressive, Fakir. But still not what we need.”