Fall From Grace, chapter seven, by insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug (Princess Tutu, #16)
Title: Fall From Grace, Chapter Seven
Author: Lucky_Ladybug/insaneladybug
Theme: #16 - Mosso (Fighting)
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Warnings: A canon character gradually going off the deep end/behaving as though he has a split personality/being possessed besides? ...
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and the story is!
Summary/Comments: Fakir's talk with the oak tree is less than helpful. And Autor's about to make a horrifying discovery as he writes the final part of his ballet.
Cross-posted to http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5844337/7/ and ladybug_tales.
Prompt #16 - Mosso (Fighting)
Fakir sighed as he crouched down by the rock in the museum grounds. Though he did not want the memories to plague him, here they were anyway-just as they came every time he journeyed to this spot. It was impossible not to remember that night when Autor had explained about the Story-Spinners and their oak tree-and later had been electrocuted when the tree had communed with Fakir. Though Fakir had not actually been aware that had happened, Ahiru had told him later.
That was the first time Autor had needed his help. Things had been so much different then, when they had been fighting against Drosselmeyer’s Story . . . and had all been on the same side.
He clenched his teeth, placing his hand on the rock. Would there be silence again? This was a problem he did not know how to solve on his own. He needed the tree’s help!
“Please, talk to me,”L he said, praying his words would not be ignored.
For a long moment he felt nothing but darkness and silence. Then there came a waving of leaves in his mind and the oak tree sighed. “Your paper is still blank.”
“I don’t know how to write this!” Fakir exclaimed. He was sitting at the base of the tree, finally welcomed in for whatever turn the conversation would take. It was a relief, yet he dreaded what he might learn.
“Is it your Story to write?” the tree returned.
Fakir frowned. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said. “Actually, this time I came to ask you about Autor’s Story. Is the Story itself corrupting him? Is there any way to save him?”
“There are many ways to corrupt,” said the tree. “And there are many ways to save.” The leaves rustled again, then were still.
“Autor’s an idiot,” Fakir growled. “You never chose him because you knew he couldn’t take the pull of the power, didn’t you?”
“The purest gems are often the easily tarnished. Yet power is not always an ill thing. For good or ill, the ability is in his veins.”
“But he’s not using it for good!” Fakir protested. “You know what he’s doing, don’t you? And how he’s changing.” He clenched his teeth. “Or . . . was he always like this, and finally getting hold of the power is just bringing his real self to light?”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I don’t know!” Fakir said again, his frustration rising to the surface. “I don’t know who Autor is anymore. I don’t know if I ever knew. I never thought he’d betray me.”
“See beyond the suffering of the betrayed and to the suffering of the betrayer.”
“Autor brought this on himself,” Fakir retorted. “If he’s suffering, he deserves it.”
“Are these your true feelings?”
By now Fakir was exasperated and frustrated. The tree often talked in riddles, but today he needed it to be straightforward if he was going to get anywhere.
“All I wanted to know is if he’s being corrupted by the Story and if he can be saved,” he exclaimed. “I can’t make sense of your answer.”
“Then return only when you understand.”
“No, wait!” Fakir protested.
But he had already been thrust out of the oak tree’s realm. He started, coming back to himself as he knelt beside the rock. A chill autumn breeze nipped at his cheeks and arms, having gone unnoticed when he had been exchanging words with the tree.
He leaned back, running a hand into his hair. Why had the oak tree started to question him about himself when it should have answered his own questions about Autor? Why were Fakir’s feelings important? Especially if this was not his Story to write?
“Are those my true feelings?” he found himself whispering aloud. He was angry, he was hurt, he felt betrayed.
Ahiru and Rue had seen Autor shifting personalities, but Fakir had only seen Autor bathed in his madness and power-lust. Was that part of why he could not feel about Autor as the girls did? But Mytho had not encountered Autor at all, and yet he kept insisting that he sensed that not everything was Autor’s fault.
His head dropped as he stared forlornly at the grass. “I don’t want him to suffer,” he muttered. “I want to save him. I hate that I can’t do anything. But I’m still angry. I’m still hurt.”
Did part of him want Autor to suffer? If so, was he just righteously indignant . . . or was he giving in to the same dark feelings that had pushed Autor on this path?
It was no wonder that he could not write a Story to save Autor if part of him felt hateful. But he kept going back to when the tree had also said that maybe it was not his Story to write in the first place.
This is ridiculous! Everything’s contradictory!
Fakir pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. This would be so much easier if I knew whether the Autor I thought I knew is really there, he said to himself. What if he’s always been a façade? I know he wants power.
But since when had Story-Spinning, or fighting to save a supposed friend, ever been easy?
Maybe I just have to stop doubting, Fakir mused. Why can’t I believe in Autor like the others do? He did save my life. Why can’t I believe that maybe he wanted to save me personally as well as just saving me to write the Story?
Uzura, watching with Drosselmeyer, felt the tears come to her eyes. “He did zura!” she exclaimed. “He told me so zura. He lied to you, Fakir zura.”
Drosselmeyer smirked. “Ah, but Fakir will never know that.”
If I can’t believe in Autor, I should be able to believe in Ahiru and Mytho, Fakir thought. And maybe through them, I’ll be able to believe in Autor.
Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet. Was that really all he could do right now-just believe? If he was not meant to write the Story, did that mean Autor himself would finish it? Was he supposed to trust that Autor would come back to himself and not keep turning everything into a tragedy?
But would Autor come back to himself if the others were not there to encourage him? It certainly had not done much good so far, though he supposed that to even see a glimpse of the old Autor would be some kind of victory.
Rue had said his darker side was getting a stronger hold. If they kept trying to get through to his good side, would they eventually succeed? Or would he only get angry at the interference and close himself off all the more?
Fakir ran a hand into his hair. He did not know the right thing to do in this mess. For the time being, there was probably nothing to do other than to go along with Rue’s and Mytho’s plans-but Mytho’s involved seeking for a way to help Autor before they had to have the final confrontation. And so far, that seemed hopeless.
There’s only a few days, he thought. Will we find something if we keep looking?
And what if they turned up nothing and they could not bring Autor back to himself? What solution to save the world did they have then?
He stiffened as words he had once spoken to Princess Tutu flashed through his mind, words that he had said when he had fought to protect Mytho with a sword.
“Could you kill me if you had to? If it came to it, I could kill you.”
That threat had long ago ceased to be true where Tutu was concerned. But this situation was different. With the entire world in danger, and Autor out of his mind . . . would Fakir be forced to make such a drastic choice? Could he?
“Autor,” he muttered, staring across the cold sky in the general direction of the theatre. “Don’t force my hand like that. Don’t make me end your life. Because . . . if it came to it, I’d have to do it.”
The autumn wind blew against his face and hair, sharp and foreboding. For a moment he stood there and faced it, his eyes narrowed. Then he turned and walked away.
****
“There’s something I’ve been wondering.”
Ahiru blinked in surprise, turning to look as Mytho spoke. They were going through every possible book in the library that might be of some use to them, but after hours of searching in vain, Ahiru was ready to give up. She had already slumped over the table in discouragement. Mytho’s determination to keep looking, however-as well as his sudden comment-drew Ahiru back upright.
“How is it that everyone seems to remember us?” Mytho went on. “I know Fakir said it had started to happen, and that he did not think Autor was involved. But if not Autor, then who?” He shook his head. “I thought it wasn’t important, so I set it aside. Still, I can’t help wondering if I’m mistaken and it’s somehow relevant to our problems.”
Ahiru could only give a helpless shrug. “We were really surprised when it started happening,” she said. “It was like you’d never left. . . . Or at least, they talked like that. Everyone was wondering if you and Rue were going to come back.” She made a face. “And some people started passing around weird, awful rumors, like that you and Rue had been taken off by the ghost knight or fell in the river under the riddle bridge.”
Mytho chuckled. “I see.”
“And some of them were asking Fakir if he knew where you guys were,” Ahiru said. “Fakir was getting kind of annoyed.”
“I can imagine,” Mytho said.
“Some have even started recalling the more unusual elements of Drosselmeyer’s Story,” he mused now. “I heard a couple of students today confused because they kept imagining the gray tomcat on the grounds being the ballet instructor.” He set down the latest book, crossing his arms on the surface of the table. “It’s so strange.”
“It really is weird,” Ahiru said.
Mytho hesitated before speaking again. “I’ve been half-wondering if what’s causing it is the Story itself,” he said.
“Eh?!” Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. “Fakir ended it! He wrote an ending and everything!”
“I know.” Mytho sighed. “But did the Story want to end? Did it want to be unremembered by almost everyone involved?”
Ahiru slumped back, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots. “A Story isn’t real,” she protested. “I mean, it doesn’t have feelings and stuff!”
“There were so many things that seemed hard to believe in the past,” Mytho said. “Maybe this is just another one of them. If it could be true at all, of course.”
He looked to the alarmed redhead. “Actually, Ahiru, it was you who gave me this idea,” he said.
“Me?!” Ahiru exclaimed. Her eyes widened even more. “Really?”
“Really,” Mytho said. “When you kept saying maybe the Story was somehow controlling Autor. I know you didn’t mean literally, but I started wondering if that could be a possibility.”
Ahiru shook her head, her voice rising with each word. “But if a Story has feelings, and it’s alive and everything, how can you ever stop it?! You can’t kill a Story!”
“Well, technically you could, I imagine, but I would never try it,” Mytho said. Quieter he said, “That could destroy all of us.”
Ahiru clenched her fists, leaping to her feet. “And what if someone else decided to really do that?! What if someone like the Bookmen decided it?!” She was going to continue her spiel, but her next words trailed off into the air. She slumped down at the chair, her head bowed.
“Ahiru?” Mytho asked in concern. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “I was just thinking,” she said sadly. “There’s no one yelling at me to be quiet. Autor always did that if someone was talking too loud in the library.”
Mytho regarded her with surprise, though only for a moment. He reached over, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I still believe we can save him, Ahiru,” he said. “Especially if it isn’t just his own desire for power that’s causing the problem.”
Ahiru looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But . . . wouldn’t that make it even harder?” she said. “I mean, if there were two things getting in the way of Autor being his regular self.”
“It could,” Mytho said. “Yet, if Autor himself is a literal victim, he has to be given the strength to fight against the outside influence as well as the inside influence.” He looked down. “An inside influence can be much worse.”
Ahiru searched his golden eyes, seeking some understanding. “You were a victim too, Mytho,” she said. “You couldn’t help what you were doing. You were trying so hard to fight the Raven’s blood!”
“My best wasn’t good enough,” Mytho said. “It was only when Rue spoke her words of true love that I was able to overcome the curse.”
Ahiru pondered over his words. “Then you mean if we let Autor know how much we really love him, he could get the strength to fight the Story or whatever it is?” she said. “I thought we’d already tried to let him know.”
Mytho sighed. “I don’t know what would work,” he said. “Rue certainly tried yesterday.” He turned away. “I didn’t want to say anything aloud, but I could see from her eyes that she was losing hope. I believe she’s afraid that Autor will walk the same path as Princess Kraehe, and as I myself did under the Raven’s blood; only she fears his ending won’t be happy.”
“But it has to be!” Ahiru insisted. “I don’t want him to be hurt anymore. I . . .” She blinked back the tears, yet they would not be denied. Several slipped free of her eyes anyway. “I just want our friend back. And I won’t give up on having him back. We have to give him a happy ending, just like all of us had when Fakir ended Drosselmeyer’s Story!”
“And we’ll all do our best to make sure that comes true,” Mytho said.
Ahiru nodded. “I know. I . . .” She reached up, brushing away the stray tears. “It’s kind of funny how I ended up feeling so close to Autor. I mean, he can still be annoying when he goes on about his research and acts like a know-it-all. I don’t think he cares how it sounds to other people, but I also kind of wonder if he doesn’t really know how to act around people because he doesn’t talk to them much. I realized a while back that he must be pretty lonely.”
She gave a weak laugh. “I’m always getting in with these guys I think are jerks and then finding out they’re a lot different. . . .” She trailed off, flaming red. “Of course, I don’t mean you, Mytho!” she exclaimed, waving her hands. “You were always nice. But I thought both Fakir and Autor were creeps when I met them, and now I love them both and . . .”
Suddenly she was turning an even deeper red. “But I . . . I don’t love Autor the same way I love Fakir,” she stammered. “Autor’s my friend and all, but Fakir is . . . nevermind.” Now her voice had descended to an embarrassed squeak.
Mytho just smiled gently. “Does Fakir know how you feel about him?” he asked.
Ahiru grabbed the nearest book and randomly opened it, pretending to be diligently searching once more. “Um, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe? Could be? . . . Would he?”
Mytho reached over, lowering the book enough that he could see it was upsidedown. “You should let him know,” he said. “Just in case he doesn’t. After all . . .” He winked. “Fakir sometimes doesn’t seem to notice what’s right in front of him.”
Ahiru gave a weak laugh. “Yeah. . . .”
“Of course, I’m one to talk,” Mytho said. “I wasn’t really aware of such things for years.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have a heart!” Ahiru said. “So you’ve got a really good excuse.” Muttering, she added, “Fakir doesn’t have an excuse like that.”
She sighed, closing the upsidedown book. “Well, we’ve looked at everything here that we thought could help and we haven’t found anything!” she cried, changing the subject.
“Yes . . .” Mytho agreed. “We’d better put these books back where we found them.” His eyes flickered, the only visible sign that he was discouraged by the efforts of their search.
Ahiru took up her stack, gritting her teeth at the weight. “Autor would probably say . . . we should leave it up to the librarians to put them back,” she gasped. “That we’d . . . get them out of place. And then I’d get mad . . . and say . . . we could put them away just fine. . . .”
Mytho looked at her in concern. “Are you sure you can manage all of those, Ahiru?” he asked. “Maybe you should divide it in half and . . .”
“I’ve got it!” Ahiru exclaimed.
Without warning she stumbled, swaying forward with the load. With an alarmed “Quack!” her grip loosened, sending the tomes to the floor-along with Ahiru herself. She groaned, plunking her chin on the nearest book. “And maybe Autor would be right,” she mumbled.
Mytho had already set aside his own books and was kneeling next to her. “Are you alright, Ahiru?” he gasped.
She sat up, her shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I think so,” she said. “At least I’m not turning into a duck anymore when I quack.” She snuck a look around at the other patrons, hoping they would not have noticed the commotion. But to her chagrin, they were all looking her way.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, rushing to gather up the fallen books. “You can all just go back to what you were doing now. Everything’s okay! There’s no cause for alarm!”
Mytho smiled again. “Maybe this time, you really should take half, Ahiru,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ahiru nodded in agreement. Setting one part of the stack on the table, she took the other half and carried it carefully to the shelf. As Mytho joined her, she bit her lip.
“So . . . what are we going to do?” she said, keeping her eyes focused on replacing the books in their (she hoped) proper places. “Just follow Rue’s plan?”
Mytho sighed. “Unless something else comes up, I don’t know what else we can do,” he said. “We’ll just have to pray that this time, the collective efforts of all of us at once can get through to Autor and help him come back.”
Ahiru nodded, glowering at the rows of books. Even though she would have gotten upset and yelled, she wished Autor had been there to scold her for making so much noise in the library.
“What if we can’t?” she said in a small voice. “What happens to Autor then?”
Mytho stiffened. It was a question he had hoped Ahiru would not ask, as he did not know how to answer. If it came down to sacrificing Autor or sacrificing the world, in good conscience could they really let him take control of the world in his crazed state?
In good conscience, could they really end Autor’s life?
“Oh Ahiru,” he said softly. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
She turned to face him, her blue eyes glistening. In that grief-stricken look, Mytho saw to his surprise and sorrow that Ahiru had been wondering the very things he had been thinking. He had not thought she would have allowed herself to realize that it was a very real possibility, if the idea crossed her mind at all.
“I don’t want to sacrifice anyone, Mytho,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t think I could. But I don’t know how to save everyone, either.”
Mytho looked at her sadly. “Neither do I, Ahiru,” he said. “I thought I always had an option on what to do if people needed help. Even if it would hurt me, I was willing to do it for them. But in this situation, I confess I’m at a loss.”
Ahiru looked away, remembering her conversation with Fakir on what would happen if he wrote about Princess Tutu being revived. Though she felt a twinge of guilt for not mentioning it, she knew that in good conscience she never could. She would not sacrifice one friend for another.
“Well, you said you believe we can save Autor, right?” she said.
Mytho nodded. “Yes. . . .”
“Then we just have to do our best!” Ahiru turned back to face him, smiling now. “Everything will be okay if we just don’t give up.”
Mytho blinked in surprise. “You’re right,” he said. “We must never lose sight of that.” He smiled too. “Why don’t we see if Fakir and Rue are back yet? It’s going to be time to eat soon.”
Ahiru nodded in enthusiasm.
That’s right, she thought as they left. We can’t lose hope or give up. And I won’t think about what’ll happen if we fail, because we just can’t.
“Oh, that’s dangerous thinking, little Ahiru,” Drosselmeyer sneered. “Very dangerous thinking. I like it. What will you think when all falls to ruin after all? The devastation you will feel will be even worse than it would be if you allowed yourself to fear your defeat.”
****
Autor had locked himself in his music room for two days, determined to finish the score of his masterpiece. He only had the last two scenes to write, and though the entire world would only be brought under his control when the completed work was performed in front of an audience, just finishing the remaining songs would bring another large portion of the lands under his command. And after he revealed his identity he would be acknowledged for his work at changing the world, and he would have it all in the palm of his hand to continue shaping for good.
But the work was moving slowly, and ground almost entirely to a halt when he reached the finale. It was not writer’s block exactly; it was more like part of him did not want to complete the score. It was driving him mad. If anyone had looked in on him now, they would have seen that he was a mess. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair a wild mop from his fingers running through it so many times. Ink stained his fingers from writing the notes on the pages in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“The melodies always flowed before,” he said through clenched teeth. “Why am I having so much trouble now, on the eve of my work’s debut?”
He raised a shaking hand, adding another chord to the paper. “Write!” he ordered. “Compose it and write it down-now! NOW!”
He slammed his other hand on the keys. What was it that was trying to hold him back? Why was part of him being so weak when his lifelong dreams were so close to fulfillment? It did not make sense.
I always wanted to change the world, he said to himself. I thought that was my purpose, my reason for existence. But when Fakir was chosen instead of me, I thought that was all forsaken and lost. Now I’ve discovered that through my music, I still have a chance to use the power I always longed for. I’ve been able to write for months. Why can’t I write now?
You didn’t want to repeat the tragedy of the woman’s lost husband, his own voice said back to him. Do you really know what you’ve been trying to write now? Look at it. Look at it and tell me if that’s how you want to go into your new world.
He frowned in confusion. Of course he knew what he had been writing. What was this nonsense? The piece would crown him with glory all on his own, without any princess or anyone else by his side in the changed world.
. . . Because . . .
Because why? . . . What was this? He stared closer at the page. Right at the spot where he had been having so much difficulty, the mood of the music had been considerably altered. It had turned dark and hateful, poisoned by evil thoughts-thoughts that were not and never could be his.
The color drained from his face. “No,” he gasped. “No, this can’t be true. I . . . I . . .” He took the sheet down, staring in sheer, sickened horror at what his hand had written. “I didn’t write this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
The page repulsed him. He wanted to crumple it up and throw it into the roaring fire to his right. He tried to . . . but his hands would not obey. The moment he tried to bring them together with the paper in between, they burned as if they had been thrust into the fire. He screamed in both surprise and anguish, the sheet slipping out of his hands and to the floor.
How dare you try to destroy my work?!
Another voice. He looked up, shaking, but there was no one else visible in the room. He was alone in his madness.
You gave life to me, but if you are trying to reject me now, you will regret it.
“Who are you?!” he yelled, leaping to his feet so quickly that the bench crashed to the floor behind him. “Tell me, who are you?!”
I told you. The you that you’ve been afraid of, the you that is your Story. All writers put a little of themselves into their Stories, but then the Stories go off on their own and become their own, flourishing entities. You were always afraid of putting me into your Stories, but that didn’t stop you this time. You started out small and innocent, yet still the tales you wove called me into being because of your deep-seated desires for power. And the more you wrote, the better I was able to force my way into your Stories. Now, you see, I’m even able to write through you.
Autor fell back, horrified and fascinated all at once. “You . . . you’re my Story?” he breathed. “I’ve created something so powerful that it no longer even listens to its creator?”
Drosselmeyer was aware that this could happen. But he trained himself to become so powerful that it was not a concern for him. You, so confident in your abilities and yet knowing so little of corruption, are weak. Yet you did know that Stories could overrule an immature power. You warned the chosen Story-Spinner of that very thing.
“Yes, but I never knew that a Story could literally . . .” Autor trailed off, forcing himself back to his senses. This was not a time to be amazed by the Story’s powers.
“I won’t have you put this in my masterpiece!” he said angrily, indicating the fallen sheet. “It isn’t what I planned at all.”
Your masterpiece? Your masterpiece is me, and I will add whatever I choose. If you will not consent, even as you’ve now become, then I will repel you completely. You will never have power over me. I won’t even allow you to see the world you’ve been struggling so hard to create. It will be my world, for your Story is about claiming control of the world and I am you and your Story!
A flaming pain filled Autor’s heart. An agonized cry tore from his lips as he stumbled, clawing at his chest with both hands. The dark fire was stronger than before. Illness and dizziness overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily.
For one moment his eyes cleared, free of the insanity and power-lust that had filled them for months. “What have I done?” he rasped. “My God, what have I done?”
His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. When he looked up again, his eyes bore a wild, murderous gleam that Autor himself would never be capable of holding. He reached down, picking up the fallen page.
“Now,” he hissed, “to finish my composition.”
Righting the piano bench, he sat upon it and began again to play the dark, wicked music-this time with ease.
“So, you’ve finally discovered one of the secrets I took with me to my grave,” Drosselmeyer said. “Too little, too late.” He gave a mock look of sympathy. “My, my, corrupted not only by your own madness and dark self, but by your very Story. You are in a sorry state, Autor, my boy. Such a pity. Such a dreadful pity.”
Uzura stared at the scene in the gear with horrified eyes. “Autor zura,” she whispered.
“I daresay he’s gone now, Uzura,” Drosselmeyer said. “At least as we know him.”
Uzura fell to her knees in tears. “No!” she retorted. “No, I won’t believe it zura!”
The crystalline drops splashed on her drum, accompanying a concerto that was, on the following night, to be stained in blood.
I hope no one’s offended by Autor’s exclamation; I truly didn’t mean it in a context of him taking God’s name in vain.
Author: Lucky_Ladybug/insaneladybug
Theme: #16 - Mosso (Fighting)
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Warnings: A canon character gradually going off the deep end/behaving as though he has a split personality/being possessed besides? ...
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and the story is!
Summary/Comments: Fakir's talk with the oak tree is less than helpful. And Autor's about to make a horrifying discovery as he writes the final part of his ballet.
Cross-posted to http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5844337/7/ and ladybug_tales.
Prompt #16 - Mosso (Fighting)
Fakir sighed as he crouched down by the rock in the museum grounds. Though he did not want the memories to plague him, here they were anyway-just as they came every time he journeyed to this spot. It was impossible not to remember that night when Autor had explained about the Story-Spinners and their oak tree-and later had been electrocuted when the tree had communed with Fakir. Though Fakir had not actually been aware that had happened, Ahiru had told him later.
That was the first time Autor had needed his help. Things had been so much different then, when they had been fighting against Drosselmeyer’s Story . . . and had all been on the same side.
He clenched his teeth, placing his hand on the rock. Would there be silence again? This was a problem he did not know how to solve on his own. He needed the tree’s help!
“Please, talk to me,”L he said, praying his words would not be ignored.
For a long moment he felt nothing but darkness and silence. Then there came a waving of leaves in his mind and the oak tree sighed. “Your paper is still blank.”
“I don’t know how to write this!” Fakir exclaimed. He was sitting at the base of the tree, finally welcomed in for whatever turn the conversation would take. It was a relief, yet he dreaded what he might learn.
“Is it your Story to write?” the tree returned.
Fakir frowned. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said. “Actually, this time I came to ask you about Autor’s Story. Is the Story itself corrupting him? Is there any way to save him?”
“There are many ways to corrupt,” said the tree. “And there are many ways to save.” The leaves rustled again, then were still.
“Autor’s an idiot,” Fakir growled. “You never chose him because you knew he couldn’t take the pull of the power, didn’t you?”
“The purest gems are often the easily tarnished. Yet power is not always an ill thing. For good or ill, the ability is in his veins.”
“But he’s not using it for good!” Fakir protested. “You know what he’s doing, don’t you? And how he’s changing.” He clenched his teeth. “Or . . . was he always like this, and finally getting hold of the power is just bringing his real self to light?”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I don’t know!” Fakir said again, his frustration rising to the surface. “I don’t know who Autor is anymore. I don’t know if I ever knew. I never thought he’d betray me.”
“See beyond the suffering of the betrayed and to the suffering of the betrayer.”
“Autor brought this on himself,” Fakir retorted. “If he’s suffering, he deserves it.”
“Are these your true feelings?”
By now Fakir was exasperated and frustrated. The tree often talked in riddles, but today he needed it to be straightforward if he was going to get anywhere.
“All I wanted to know is if he’s being corrupted by the Story and if he can be saved,” he exclaimed. “I can’t make sense of your answer.”
“Then return only when you understand.”
“No, wait!” Fakir protested.
But he had already been thrust out of the oak tree’s realm. He started, coming back to himself as he knelt beside the rock. A chill autumn breeze nipped at his cheeks and arms, having gone unnoticed when he had been exchanging words with the tree.
He leaned back, running a hand into his hair. Why had the oak tree started to question him about himself when it should have answered his own questions about Autor? Why were Fakir’s feelings important? Especially if this was not his Story to write?
“Are those my true feelings?” he found himself whispering aloud. He was angry, he was hurt, he felt betrayed.
Ahiru and Rue had seen Autor shifting personalities, but Fakir had only seen Autor bathed in his madness and power-lust. Was that part of why he could not feel about Autor as the girls did? But Mytho had not encountered Autor at all, and yet he kept insisting that he sensed that not everything was Autor’s fault.
His head dropped as he stared forlornly at the grass. “I don’t want him to suffer,” he muttered. “I want to save him. I hate that I can’t do anything. But I’m still angry. I’m still hurt.”
Did part of him want Autor to suffer? If so, was he just righteously indignant . . . or was he giving in to the same dark feelings that had pushed Autor on this path?
It was no wonder that he could not write a Story to save Autor if part of him felt hateful. But he kept going back to when the tree had also said that maybe it was not his Story to write in the first place.
This is ridiculous! Everything’s contradictory!
Fakir pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. This would be so much easier if I knew whether the Autor I thought I knew is really there, he said to himself. What if he’s always been a façade? I know he wants power.
But since when had Story-Spinning, or fighting to save a supposed friend, ever been easy?
Maybe I just have to stop doubting, Fakir mused. Why can’t I believe in Autor like the others do? He did save my life. Why can’t I believe that maybe he wanted to save me personally as well as just saving me to write the Story?
Uzura, watching with Drosselmeyer, felt the tears come to her eyes. “He did zura!” she exclaimed. “He told me so zura. He lied to you, Fakir zura.”
Drosselmeyer smirked. “Ah, but Fakir will never know that.”
If I can’t believe in Autor, I should be able to believe in Ahiru and Mytho, Fakir thought. And maybe through them, I’ll be able to believe in Autor.
Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet. Was that really all he could do right now-just believe? If he was not meant to write the Story, did that mean Autor himself would finish it? Was he supposed to trust that Autor would come back to himself and not keep turning everything into a tragedy?
But would Autor come back to himself if the others were not there to encourage him? It certainly had not done much good so far, though he supposed that to even see a glimpse of the old Autor would be some kind of victory.
Rue had said his darker side was getting a stronger hold. If they kept trying to get through to his good side, would they eventually succeed? Or would he only get angry at the interference and close himself off all the more?
Fakir ran a hand into his hair. He did not know the right thing to do in this mess. For the time being, there was probably nothing to do other than to go along with Rue’s and Mytho’s plans-but Mytho’s involved seeking for a way to help Autor before they had to have the final confrontation. And so far, that seemed hopeless.
There’s only a few days, he thought. Will we find something if we keep looking?
And what if they turned up nothing and they could not bring Autor back to himself? What solution to save the world did they have then?
He stiffened as words he had once spoken to Princess Tutu flashed through his mind, words that he had said when he had fought to protect Mytho with a sword.
“Could you kill me if you had to? If it came to it, I could kill you.”
That threat had long ago ceased to be true where Tutu was concerned. But this situation was different. With the entire world in danger, and Autor out of his mind . . . would Fakir be forced to make such a drastic choice? Could he?
“Autor,” he muttered, staring across the cold sky in the general direction of the theatre. “Don’t force my hand like that. Don’t make me end your life. Because . . . if it came to it, I’d have to do it.”
The autumn wind blew against his face and hair, sharp and foreboding. For a moment he stood there and faced it, his eyes narrowed. Then he turned and walked away.
****
“There’s something I’ve been wondering.”
Ahiru blinked in surprise, turning to look as Mytho spoke. They were going through every possible book in the library that might be of some use to them, but after hours of searching in vain, Ahiru was ready to give up. She had already slumped over the table in discouragement. Mytho’s determination to keep looking, however-as well as his sudden comment-drew Ahiru back upright.
“How is it that everyone seems to remember us?” Mytho went on. “I know Fakir said it had started to happen, and that he did not think Autor was involved. But if not Autor, then who?” He shook his head. “I thought it wasn’t important, so I set it aside. Still, I can’t help wondering if I’m mistaken and it’s somehow relevant to our problems.”
Ahiru could only give a helpless shrug. “We were really surprised when it started happening,” she said. “It was like you’d never left. . . . Or at least, they talked like that. Everyone was wondering if you and Rue were going to come back.” She made a face. “And some people started passing around weird, awful rumors, like that you and Rue had been taken off by the ghost knight or fell in the river under the riddle bridge.”
Mytho chuckled. “I see.”
“And some of them were asking Fakir if he knew where you guys were,” Ahiru said. “Fakir was getting kind of annoyed.”
“I can imagine,” Mytho said.
“Some have even started recalling the more unusual elements of Drosselmeyer’s Story,” he mused now. “I heard a couple of students today confused because they kept imagining the gray tomcat on the grounds being the ballet instructor.” He set down the latest book, crossing his arms on the surface of the table. “It’s so strange.”
“It really is weird,” Ahiru said.
Mytho hesitated before speaking again. “I’ve been half-wondering if what’s causing it is the Story itself,” he said.
“Eh?!” Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. “Fakir ended it! He wrote an ending and everything!”
“I know.” Mytho sighed. “But did the Story want to end? Did it want to be unremembered by almost everyone involved?”
Ahiru slumped back, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots. “A Story isn’t real,” she protested. “I mean, it doesn’t have feelings and stuff!”
“There were so many things that seemed hard to believe in the past,” Mytho said. “Maybe this is just another one of them. If it could be true at all, of course.”
He looked to the alarmed redhead. “Actually, Ahiru, it was you who gave me this idea,” he said.
“Me?!” Ahiru exclaimed. Her eyes widened even more. “Really?”
“Really,” Mytho said. “When you kept saying maybe the Story was somehow controlling Autor. I know you didn’t mean literally, but I started wondering if that could be a possibility.”
Ahiru shook her head, her voice rising with each word. “But if a Story has feelings, and it’s alive and everything, how can you ever stop it?! You can’t kill a Story!”
“Well, technically you could, I imagine, but I would never try it,” Mytho said. Quieter he said, “That could destroy all of us.”
Ahiru clenched her fists, leaping to her feet. “And what if someone else decided to really do that?! What if someone like the Bookmen decided it?!” She was going to continue her spiel, but her next words trailed off into the air. She slumped down at the chair, her head bowed.
“Ahiru?” Mytho asked in concern. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “I was just thinking,” she said sadly. “There’s no one yelling at me to be quiet. Autor always did that if someone was talking too loud in the library.”
Mytho regarded her with surprise, though only for a moment. He reached over, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“I still believe we can save him, Ahiru,” he said. “Especially if it isn’t just his own desire for power that’s causing the problem.”
Ahiru looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But . . . wouldn’t that make it even harder?” she said. “I mean, if there were two things getting in the way of Autor being his regular self.”
“It could,” Mytho said. “Yet, if Autor himself is a literal victim, he has to be given the strength to fight against the outside influence as well as the inside influence.” He looked down. “An inside influence can be much worse.”
Ahiru searched his golden eyes, seeking some understanding. “You were a victim too, Mytho,” she said. “You couldn’t help what you were doing. You were trying so hard to fight the Raven’s blood!”
“My best wasn’t good enough,” Mytho said. “It was only when Rue spoke her words of true love that I was able to overcome the curse.”
Ahiru pondered over his words. “Then you mean if we let Autor know how much we really love him, he could get the strength to fight the Story or whatever it is?” she said. “I thought we’d already tried to let him know.”
Mytho sighed. “I don’t know what would work,” he said. “Rue certainly tried yesterday.” He turned away. “I didn’t want to say anything aloud, but I could see from her eyes that she was losing hope. I believe she’s afraid that Autor will walk the same path as Princess Kraehe, and as I myself did under the Raven’s blood; only she fears his ending won’t be happy.”
“But it has to be!” Ahiru insisted. “I don’t want him to be hurt anymore. I . . .” She blinked back the tears, yet they would not be denied. Several slipped free of her eyes anyway. “I just want our friend back. And I won’t give up on having him back. We have to give him a happy ending, just like all of us had when Fakir ended Drosselmeyer’s Story!”
“And we’ll all do our best to make sure that comes true,” Mytho said.
Ahiru nodded. “I know. I . . .” She reached up, brushing away the stray tears. “It’s kind of funny how I ended up feeling so close to Autor. I mean, he can still be annoying when he goes on about his research and acts like a know-it-all. I don’t think he cares how it sounds to other people, but I also kind of wonder if he doesn’t really know how to act around people because he doesn’t talk to them much. I realized a while back that he must be pretty lonely.”
She gave a weak laugh. “I’m always getting in with these guys I think are jerks and then finding out they’re a lot different. . . .” She trailed off, flaming red. “Of course, I don’t mean you, Mytho!” she exclaimed, waving her hands. “You were always nice. But I thought both Fakir and Autor were creeps when I met them, and now I love them both and . . .”
Suddenly she was turning an even deeper red. “But I . . . I don’t love Autor the same way I love Fakir,” she stammered. “Autor’s my friend and all, but Fakir is . . . nevermind.” Now her voice had descended to an embarrassed squeak.
Mytho just smiled gently. “Does Fakir know how you feel about him?” he asked.
Ahiru grabbed the nearest book and randomly opened it, pretending to be diligently searching once more. “Um, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe? Could be? . . . Would he?”
Mytho reached over, lowering the book enough that he could see it was upsidedown. “You should let him know,” he said. “Just in case he doesn’t. After all . . .” He winked. “Fakir sometimes doesn’t seem to notice what’s right in front of him.”
Ahiru gave a weak laugh. “Yeah. . . .”
“Of course, I’m one to talk,” Mytho said. “I wasn’t really aware of such things for years.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have a heart!” Ahiru said. “So you’ve got a really good excuse.” Muttering, she added, “Fakir doesn’t have an excuse like that.”
She sighed, closing the upsidedown book. “Well, we’ve looked at everything here that we thought could help and we haven’t found anything!” she cried, changing the subject.
“Yes . . .” Mytho agreed. “We’d better put these books back where we found them.” His eyes flickered, the only visible sign that he was discouraged by the efforts of their search.
Ahiru took up her stack, gritting her teeth at the weight. “Autor would probably say . . . we should leave it up to the librarians to put them back,” she gasped. “That we’d . . . get them out of place. And then I’d get mad . . . and say . . . we could put them away just fine. . . .”
Mytho looked at her in concern. “Are you sure you can manage all of those, Ahiru?” he asked. “Maybe you should divide it in half and . . .”
“I’ve got it!” Ahiru exclaimed.
Without warning she stumbled, swaying forward with the load. With an alarmed “Quack!” her grip loosened, sending the tomes to the floor-along with Ahiru herself. She groaned, plunking her chin on the nearest book. “And maybe Autor would be right,” she mumbled.
Mytho had already set aside his own books and was kneeling next to her. “Are you alright, Ahiru?” he gasped.
She sat up, her shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I think so,” she said. “At least I’m not turning into a duck anymore when I quack.” She snuck a look around at the other patrons, hoping they would not have noticed the commotion. But to her chagrin, they were all looking her way.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, rushing to gather up the fallen books. “You can all just go back to what you were doing now. Everything’s okay! There’s no cause for alarm!”
Mytho smiled again. “Maybe this time, you really should take half, Ahiru,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ahiru nodded in agreement. Setting one part of the stack on the table, she took the other half and carried it carefully to the shelf. As Mytho joined her, she bit her lip.
“So . . . what are we going to do?” she said, keeping her eyes focused on replacing the books in their (she hoped) proper places. “Just follow Rue’s plan?”
Mytho sighed. “Unless something else comes up, I don’t know what else we can do,” he said. “We’ll just have to pray that this time, the collective efforts of all of us at once can get through to Autor and help him come back.”
Ahiru nodded, glowering at the rows of books. Even though she would have gotten upset and yelled, she wished Autor had been there to scold her for making so much noise in the library.
“What if we can’t?” she said in a small voice. “What happens to Autor then?”
Mytho stiffened. It was a question he had hoped Ahiru would not ask, as he did not know how to answer. If it came down to sacrificing Autor or sacrificing the world, in good conscience could they really let him take control of the world in his crazed state?
In good conscience, could they really end Autor’s life?
“Oh Ahiru,” he said softly. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
She turned to face him, her blue eyes glistening. In that grief-stricken look, Mytho saw to his surprise and sorrow that Ahiru had been wondering the very things he had been thinking. He had not thought she would have allowed herself to realize that it was a very real possibility, if the idea crossed her mind at all.
“I don’t want to sacrifice anyone, Mytho,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t think I could. But I don’t know how to save everyone, either.”
Mytho looked at her sadly. “Neither do I, Ahiru,” he said. “I thought I always had an option on what to do if people needed help. Even if it would hurt me, I was willing to do it for them. But in this situation, I confess I’m at a loss.”
Ahiru looked away, remembering her conversation with Fakir on what would happen if he wrote about Princess Tutu being revived. Though she felt a twinge of guilt for not mentioning it, she knew that in good conscience she never could. She would not sacrifice one friend for another.
“Well, you said you believe we can save Autor, right?” she said.
Mytho nodded. “Yes. . . .”
“Then we just have to do our best!” Ahiru turned back to face him, smiling now. “Everything will be okay if we just don’t give up.”
Mytho blinked in surprise. “You’re right,” he said. “We must never lose sight of that.” He smiled too. “Why don’t we see if Fakir and Rue are back yet? It’s going to be time to eat soon.”
Ahiru nodded in enthusiasm.
That’s right, she thought as they left. We can’t lose hope or give up. And I won’t think about what’ll happen if we fail, because we just can’t.
“Oh, that’s dangerous thinking, little Ahiru,” Drosselmeyer sneered. “Very dangerous thinking. I like it. What will you think when all falls to ruin after all? The devastation you will feel will be even worse than it would be if you allowed yourself to fear your defeat.”
****
Autor had locked himself in his music room for two days, determined to finish the score of his masterpiece. He only had the last two scenes to write, and though the entire world would only be brought under his control when the completed work was performed in front of an audience, just finishing the remaining songs would bring another large portion of the lands under his command. And after he revealed his identity he would be acknowledged for his work at changing the world, and he would have it all in the palm of his hand to continue shaping for good.
But the work was moving slowly, and ground almost entirely to a halt when he reached the finale. It was not writer’s block exactly; it was more like part of him did not want to complete the score. It was driving him mad. If anyone had looked in on him now, they would have seen that he was a mess. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair a wild mop from his fingers running through it so many times. Ink stained his fingers from writing the notes on the pages in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“The melodies always flowed before,” he said through clenched teeth. “Why am I having so much trouble now, on the eve of my work’s debut?”
He raised a shaking hand, adding another chord to the paper. “Write!” he ordered. “Compose it and write it down-now! NOW!”
He slammed his other hand on the keys. What was it that was trying to hold him back? Why was part of him being so weak when his lifelong dreams were so close to fulfillment? It did not make sense.
I always wanted to change the world, he said to himself. I thought that was my purpose, my reason for existence. But when Fakir was chosen instead of me, I thought that was all forsaken and lost. Now I’ve discovered that through my music, I still have a chance to use the power I always longed for. I’ve been able to write for months. Why can’t I write now?
You didn’t want to repeat the tragedy of the woman’s lost husband, his own voice said back to him. Do you really know what you’ve been trying to write now? Look at it. Look at it and tell me if that’s how you want to go into your new world.
He frowned in confusion. Of course he knew what he had been writing. What was this nonsense? The piece would crown him with glory all on his own, without any princess or anyone else by his side in the changed world.
. . . Because . . .
Because why? . . . What was this? He stared closer at the page. Right at the spot where he had been having so much difficulty, the mood of the music had been considerably altered. It had turned dark and hateful, poisoned by evil thoughts-thoughts that were not and never could be his.
The color drained from his face. “No,” he gasped. “No, this can’t be true. I . . . I . . .” He took the sheet down, staring in sheer, sickened horror at what his hand had written. “I didn’t write this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
The page repulsed him. He wanted to crumple it up and throw it into the roaring fire to his right. He tried to . . . but his hands would not obey. The moment he tried to bring them together with the paper in between, they burned as if they had been thrust into the fire. He screamed in both surprise and anguish, the sheet slipping out of his hands and to the floor.
How dare you try to destroy my work?!
Another voice. He looked up, shaking, but there was no one else visible in the room. He was alone in his madness.
You gave life to me, but if you are trying to reject me now, you will regret it.
“Who are you?!” he yelled, leaping to his feet so quickly that the bench crashed to the floor behind him. “Tell me, who are you?!”
I told you. The you that you’ve been afraid of, the you that is your Story. All writers put a little of themselves into their Stories, but then the Stories go off on their own and become their own, flourishing entities. You were always afraid of putting me into your Stories, but that didn’t stop you this time. You started out small and innocent, yet still the tales you wove called me into being because of your deep-seated desires for power. And the more you wrote, the better I was able to force my way into your Stories. Now, you see, I’m even able to write through you.
Autor fell back, horrified and fascinated all at once. “You . . . you’re my Story?” he breathed. “I’ve created something so powerful that it no longer even listens to its creator?”
Drosselmeyer was aware that this could happen. But he trained himself to become so powerful that it was not a concern for him. You, so confident in your abilities and yet knowing so little of corruption, are weak. Yet you did know that Stories could overrule an immature power. You warned the chosen Story-Spinner of that very thing.
“Yes, but I never knew that a Story could literally . . .” Autor trailed off, forcing himself back to his senses. This was not a time to be amazed by the Story’s powers.
“I won’t have you put this in my masterpiece!” he said angrily, indicating the fallen sheet. “It isn’t what I planned at all.”
Your masterpiece? Your masterpiece is me, and I will add whatever I choose. If you will not consent, even as you’ve now become, then I will repel you completely. You will never have power over me. I won’t even allow you to see the world you’ve been struggling so hard to create. It will be my world, for your Story is about claiming control of the world and I am you and your Story!
A flaming pain filled Autor’s heart. An agonized cry tore from his lips as he stumbled, clawing at his chest with both hands. The dark fire was stronger than before. Illness and dizziness overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily.
For one moment his eyes cleared, free of the insanity and power-lust that had filled them for months. “What have I done?” he rasped. “My God, what have I done?”
His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. When he looked up again, his eyes bore a wild, murderous gleam that Autor himself would never be capable of holding. He reached down, picking up the fallen page.
“Now,” he hissed, “to finish my composition.”
Righting the piano bench, he sat upon it and began again to play the dark, wicked music-this time with ease.
“So, you’ve finally discovered one of the secrets I took with me to my grave,” Drosselmeyer said. “Too little, too late.” He gave a mock look of sympathy. “My, my, corrupted not only by your own madness and dark self, but by your very Story. You are in a sorry state, Autor, my boy. Such a pity. Such a dreadful pity.”
Uzura stared at the scene in the gear with horrified eyes. “Autor zura,” she whispered.
“I daresay he’s gone now, Uzura,” Drosselmeyer said. “At least as we know him.”
Uzura fell to her knees in tears. “No!” she retorted. “No, I won’t believe it zura!”
The crystalline drops splashed on her drum, accompanying a concerto that was, on the following night, to be stained in blood.
I hope no one’s offended by Autor’s exclamation; I truly didn’t mean it in a context of him taking God’s name in vain.