Belated
Ah, finished it ^_^
Title/Theme: Origin of a heroine
Series: Princess Tutu
Rating: PG?
Word count: 1,825 (My my.)
Summary: “You want to know? Now, before it’s even begun?”(Birthday gift to Manda serika_san ^_^)
Finished: April 10, 2008 9:45 p.m.
Disclaimer: This is a fan-made story for nonprofit use. Princess Tutu is the property of Ito Ikuko, animation studio Hal Film Maker, and ADV films.
Uuuuugh. Five. Hours. This shouldn't have taken that long to write -_-;;. Sorry it's belated Manda. I had no time, NO TIME to write this eairler. Second ever fan fic, lets hope I've improved.
Long, long ago, there was a man who had not yet died.
When inspiration does not come to one, one must seek it out.
The aged author, who was never known to struggle with creativity, found himself meandering down a different road than he was accustomed.
A change of scenery can enhance creative vision.
His eyes were raised, searching the clouds drifting overhead, his cloak swishing around his ankles. Several children skidded across his path, followed by a chorus of slamming doors.
His mouth pulled into a grin.
It’s not often wise to taunt the starving artist with a meal.
He paused, before stepping through one of the gates set in the huge stonewall that ringed the center of the town. He moved past a few various shops, the air tensing in his wake.
The village’s activity picked up only after he’d moved a good few feet down the road.
A building slowly bloomed into view. It was tall, dark, and small towers that sprang out from the slanted roof that scraped against the sky. A sturdy, unwavering figure in the distance.
Upon closer inspection it was reviled to be very old; dim windows and chipped brick, with a few of the roof shingles already fallen and broken. Shadows danced around its grounds as he grew nearer, taking form of a number of children who rushed about with no particular direction. Their laughter wafted on the wind, mixed with the thumping of little feet.
This, however, is not what caught his attention.
He had stood, coming up to the building and watching it for a time, before a flash of color wavered in the corner of his eye.
A foot away, near a ditch off the road half filled with water, bent a child. She was crouched, ringing out the edge of her skirt into the miniature pool. As he stared, she straightened, before turning to meet his gaze, skirt hem still clutched in small, thin hands.
Wide eyes rose up to meet his own.
…
It became routine to visit her.
He would sit under a wiry tree that grew outside the building that was the village orphanage. Drawing up his cloak, he would seat himself on a round bolder, and tell her stories. (All of which he had written, naturally.)
She was an avid listener, perching before him, deep blue eyes shining. She never interrupted, nor asked too many questions, and always gave the appropriate response. When the stable boy first encountered the magician, she shuddered with excitement. When the rat king captured the prince, her brow creased in worry.
None of the stories ever met with happy endings, which saddened her. She asked him why the stories needed to end in pain.
“That, my dear, is because pain is so much more significant than happiness. Happiness is fleeting, mindless, and futile. Pain is inevitable. Pain is progress. Pain is living!” he gestured with a vigor, laughing.
She didn’t question him again.
…
Her interest in the stories and obedience attracted him, as did her own character, which although bright, was overshadowed by misfortune.
She had no family to speak of, spending most of her young life alone. Her body was thin and breakable, her face too small for large expressive eyes. Long, fiery hair was cut short in the back, sticking up at odd angles, making her look strangely inhuman.
Despite a kind, friendly nature, the only company she kept were the birds nested in the branch outside her window.
After coming to live in the orphanage, it was discovered that she was rather ill, and expected to live only a few years. Thus far she had exceeded the predicted age, but her health had not improved.
She was soft and small and pathetic. He adored it.
Something so tender and gentle, you wish to crush it in your hands, and watch it stain your fingers.
She took to waiting by the tree; eager for that magic time he would slowly come into view, grasping the thick leather volume from which he would educate her.
She thought him something that made her days meaningful, something she could look forward to during those dismal hours she spent alone.
…
One day, she told him her greatest wish.
They had walked into town together-which now was not rare for them- just passing a marvelous new building that had only recently been constructed. Rumor boasted the new addition to be a school for the arts that would be opening in the spring.
She told him then of her secret ambition. She wanted to be a dancer.
Upon hearing this, he gave an astonished expression, before letting out a barking laugh.
“A dancer? Such a beautiful, graceful being? You, who are so clumsy and plain?”
She faltered, her eyes dropping to her toes. It was true. She was gawky, ordinary, with no distinguishing trait.
Of the lovely, elegant swan, there is always a duck to contrast it.
She would probably never live long enough to improve at any rate.
His laughter subsided, although he gazed at her with mirth. “But that’s wonderful!”
Her face was puzzled. “Wonderful?”
“Of course! It’s so unachievable! So hopeless! It’s an impossible wish that can never be attained! The vary idea is magnificent!” he was beside himself with joy, caught in the rapture of her fruitless dream.
She didn’t full understand how she had so pleased him, but she recognized the deviant look in his eyes that said his mind buzzed with new possibilities. Nothing else mattered to him now.
The great gears sit stationary in wait. The challenge is to set them in motion.
...
He’d begun a new story.
They still met each day, although he spent less time telling her tales and more time scrawling on a huge sheet of parchment with a quill; a long, pale swan’s feather.
She moved about him, gathering dandelions that she was steadily making into a pile, which she would later bind into a bouquet. She hummed gently to herself, twirling every now and then to the steady rhythm of her song.
He glanced up from his writing, flashing a crooked smile when she presented him with the bundle of weeds.
She returned the gesture, peering down at the document in his gloved hands. Her head cocked innocently to the side, “What’s it about?”
His grin winded. “You want to know? Now, before it’s even begun?” he rasped quietly. “Impatient child. Do you so disrespect me?”
A bothered expression settled on her face. He thought her ungrateful? Her heart sank.
He laughed softly. “I will tell you. It is about a prince.”
She perked at his words. A prince…
Princes were her favorite. They were strong, brave, loyal, and daring. Even if the story ended unhappily, she still loved the ones about princes.
“What happens to the prince?” Now she was eager.
The old man’s gloved fingers tapped lightly on the paper.
“Something unfortunate.” She frowned. Another sad story, as expected.
“What…what happened?”
The quill made a scratching noise. “His kingdom is attacked. ”
Her eyes held sadness. “By what?” she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
The scratching paused.
“A great monster.”
“…Why?”
A smirk. “For the prince’s pure heart.”
This made her shudder. The whole kingdom attacked for one pure heart?
One heart can sway a people.
She was silent as he resumed his work, musing over the new tale being woven. She felt a sinking despair for the poor prince. She wished this one did not have to suffer. She wished she could help him somehow.
“And what would you do?”
She started, not realizing she had been thinking aloud. The author’s huge orange eyes were staring at her expectantly.
What would she do?
“I would…” she had no answer.
His gaze never wavered.
“…I…” she felt her heart swell with determination. “I-I would just help him. Just try. So he wouldn’t be …” she trailed off.
His gaze then fell to her shuffling feet. His eyes twinkled, remembering her previous confession.
“Would you dance?”
She blinked at him. Dance? She followed his eyes down to her toes, bewildered.
His grin was back. “But of course you would. You’d dance forever to ease his pain. You’d do anything to bring his happiness.” He met her eyes again, his own shining keenly. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Y-yes…” then firmly, anxiously. “Yes, I would!”
His attention was off her now, spiral eyes whirling in excitement.
“The grand prima donna, the dancing princess who works to sooth the wounded prince, before being cast off into emptiness! Vanished! Forgotten!” he writhed with delight.
Suddenly, he sprang to his feet, rummaging in the folds of his cloak. He smiled broadly, looking down into the girl’s curious face. Carefully, he pulled out the wanted object, placing it on top of her thick, flaming tresses.
It was a crown, constructed of soft white feathers similar to his quill, wound together with twine. The girl fingered it with wonder.
“You shall save the prince, before accepting your own fate. Will you not, fair princess?”
She blushed, before her mouth set into a firm line. “Yes!”
Even if she was not special, even if she was weak, she would help the prince.
…
Time passed.
The girl lived for a few more weeks, before finally, her frail little heart failed her, and she fell, dying at her tender young age. She was never to hear the story of the pure hearted prince.
It was just as well, an ending was never written.
Soon after her death, the town that so feared the writer and his tragic stories finally swarmed him; cutting off his hands so he could never do anymore damage.
It is rumored he died laughing.
…
Long, long ago, there was a lake that lay just outside of a town.
Resting on the shore of the lake was a tiny, newly hatched duckling; sleeping, as her tender eyes had not yet become accustomed to the light of the world.
A voice echoed through the wood surrounding her.
“Ah, so this is what you’ve become? Ah ha! How appropriate! I suppose you were always rather duck-like in the past, weren’t you?” There was an amused mumbling.
“Hn, you're even more useless than you once were.” the voice sighed happily. “You were never one to disappoint me, were you my dear?”
A pair of ghostly hand caressed the small bird, which continued to slumber on.
“The prince has arrived, the knight reborn, the raven released. This story may at last have its conclusion. “
Another burst of elated laughter.
Two enormous swirling eyes then fixed on the snoozing duckling.
“Are you prepared little duck? It is almost time for you to save your beloved prince. You promised, didn’t you?”
A strong gust of wind suddenly blew over the placid waters.
“Will you be able to aid him?”
She twitched; ruffling her small, new wings.
“Will you be able to handle it, Princess Tutu?”
~A story without an ending is a tragic thing indeed.~
Title/Theme: Origin of a heroine
Series: Princess Tutu
Rating: PG?
Word count: 1,825 (My my.)
Summary: “You want to know? Now, before it’s even begun?”(Birthday gift to Manda serika_san ^_^)
Finished: April 10, 2008 9:45 p.m.
Disclaimer: This is a fan-made story for nonprofit use. Princess Tutu is the property of Ito Ikuko, animation studio Hal Film Maker, and ADV films.
Uuuuugh. Five. Hours. This shouldn't have taken that long to write -_-;;. Sorry it's belated Manda. I had no time, NO TIME to write this eairler. Second ever fan fic, lets hope I've improved.
Long, long ago, there was a man who had not yet died.
When inspiration does not come to one, one must seek it out.
The aged author, who was never known to struggle with creativity, found himself meandering down a different road than he was accustomed.
A change of scenery can enhance creative vision.
His eyes were raised, searching the clouds drifting overhead, his cloak swishing around his ankles. Several children skidded across his path, followed by a chorus of slamming doors.
His mouth pulled into a grin.
It’s not often wise to taunt the starving artist with a meal.
He paused, before stepping through one of the gates set in the huge stonewall that ringed the center of the town. He moved past a few various shops, the air tensing in his wake.
The village’s activity picked up only after he’d moved a good few feet down the road.
A building slowly bloomed into view. It was tall, dark, and small towers that sprang out from the slanted roof that scraped against the sky. A sturdy, unwavering figure in the distance.
Upon closer inspection it was reviled to be very old; dim windows and chipped brick, with a few of the roof shingles already fallen and broken. Shadows danced around its grounds as he grew nearer, taking form of a number of children who rushed about with no particular direction. Their laughter wafted on the wind, mixed with the thumping of little feet.
This, however, is not what caught his attention.
He had stood, coming up to the building and watching it for a time, before a flash of color wavered in the corner of his eye.
A foot away, near a ditch off the road half filled with water, bent a child. She was crouched, ringing out the edge of her skirt into the miniature pool. As he stared, she straightened, before turning to meet his gaze, skirt hem still clutched in small, thin hands.
Wide eyes rose up to meet his own.
…
It became routine to visit her.
He would sit under a wiry tree that grew outside the building that was the village orphanage. Drawing up his cloak, he would seat himself on a round bolder, and tell her stories. (All of which he had written, naturally.)
She was an avid listener, perching before him, deep blue eyes shining. She never interrupted, nor asked too many questions, and always gave the appropriate response. When the stable boy first encountered the magician, she shuddered with excitement. When the rat king captured the prince, her brow creased in worry.
None of the stories ever met with happy endings, which saddened her. She asked him why the stories needed to end in pain.
“That, my dear, is because pain is so much more significant than happiness. Happiness is fleeting, mindless, and futile. Pain is inevitable. Pain is progress. Pain is living!” he gestured with a vigor, laughing.
She didn’t question him again.
…
Her interest in the stories and obedience attracted him, as did her own character, which although bright, was overshadowed by misfortune.
She had no family to speak of, spending most of her young life alone. Her body was thin and breakable, her face too small for large expressive eyes. Long, fiery hair was cut short in the back, sticking up at odd angles, making her look strangely inhuman.
Despite a kind, friendly nature, the only company she kept were the birds nested in the branch outside her window.
After coming to live in the orphanage, it was discovered that she was rather ill, and expected to live only a few years. Thus far she had exceeded the predicted age, but her health had not improved.
She was soft and small and pathetic. He adored it.
Something so tender and gentle, you wish to crush it in your hands, and watch it stain your fingers.
She took to waiting by the tree; eager for that magic time he would slowly come into view, grasping the thick leather volume from which he would educate her.
She thought him something that made her days meaningful, something she could look forward to during those dismal hours she spent alone.
…
One day, she told him her greatest wish.
They had walked into town together-which now was not rare for them- just passing a marvelous new building that had only recently been constructed. Rumor boasted the new addition to be a school for the arts that would be opening in the spring.
She told him then of her secret ambition. She wanted to be a dancer.
Upon hearing this, he gave an astonished expression, before letting out a barking laugh.
“A dancer? Such a beautiful, graceful being? You, who are so clumsy and plain?”
She faltered, her eyes dropping to her toes. It was true. She was gawky, ordinary, with no distinguishing trait.
Of the lovely, elegant swan, there is always a duck to contrast it.
She would probably never live long enough to improve at any rate.
His laughter subsided, although he gazed at her with mirth. “But that’s wonderful!”
Her face was puzzled. “Wonderful?”
“Of course! It’s so unachievable! So hopeless! It’s an impossible wish that can never be attained! The vary idea is magnificent!” he was beside himself with joy, caught in the rapture of her fruitless dream.
She didn’t full understand how she had so pleased him, but she recognized the deviant look in his eyes that said his mind buzzed with new possibilities. Nothing else mattered to him now.
The great gears sit stationary in wait. The challenge is to set them in motion.
...
He’d begun a new story.
They still met each day, although he spent less time telling her tales and more time scrawling on a huge sheet of parchment with a quill; a long, pale swan’s feather.
She moved about him, gathering dandelions that she was steadily making into a pile, which she would later bind into a bouquet. She hummed gently to herself, twirling every now and then to the steady rhythm of her song.
He glanced up from his writing, flashing a crooked smile when she presented him with the bundle of weeds.
She returned the gesture, peering down at the document in his gloved hands. Her head cocked innocently to the side, “What’s it about?”
His grin winded. “You want to know? Now, before it’s even begun?” he rasped quietly. “Impatient child. Do you so disrespect me?”
A bothered expression settled on her face. He thought her ungrateful? Her heart sank.
He laughed softly. “I will tell you. It is about a prince.”
She perked at his words. A prince…
Princes were her favorite. They were strong, brave, loyal, and daring. Even if the story ended unhappily, she still loved the ones about princes.
“What happens to the prince?” Now she was eager.
The old man’s gloved fingers tapped lightly on the paper.
“Something unfortunate.” She frowned. Another sad story, as expected.
“What…what happened?”
The quill made a scratching noise. “His kingdom is attacked. ”
Her eyes held sadness. “By what?” she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
The scratching paused.
“A great monster.”
“…Why?”
A smirk. “For the prince’s pure heart.”
This made her shudder. The whole kingdom attacked for one pure heart?
One heart can sway a people.
She was silent as he resumed his work, musing over the new tale being woven. She felt a sinking despair for the poor prince. She wished this one did not have to suffer. She wished she could help him somehow.
“And what would you do?”
She started, not realizing she had been thinking aloud. The author’s huge orange eyes were staring at her expectantly.
What would she do?
“I would…” she had no answer.
His gaze never wavered.
“…I…” she felt her heart swell with determination. “I-I would just help him. Just try. So he wouldn’t be …” she trailed off.
His gaze then fell to her shuffling feet. His eyes twinkled, remembering her previous confession.
“Would you dance?”
She blinked at him. Dance? She followed his eyes down to her toes, bewildered.
His grin was back. “But of course you would. You’d dance forever to ease his pain. You’d do anything to bring his happiness.” He met her eyes again, his own shining keenly. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Y-yes…” then firmly, anxiously. “Yes, I would!”
His attention was off her now, spiral eyes whirling in excitement.
“The grand prima donna, the dancing princess who works to sooth the wounded prince, before being cast off into emptiness! Vanished! Forgotten!” he writhed with delight.
Suddenly, he sprang to his feet, rummaging in the folds of his cloak. He smiled broadly, looking down into the girl’s curious face. Carefully, he pulled out the wanted object, placing it on top of her thick, flaming tresses.
It was a crown, constructed of soft white feathers similar to his quill, wound together with twine. The girl fingered it with wonder.
“You shall save the prince, before accepting your own fate. Will you not, fair princess?”
She blushed, before her mouth set into a firm line. “Yes!”
Even if she was not special, even if she was weak, she would help the prince.
…
Time passed.
The girl lived for a few more weeks, before finally, her frail little heart failed her, and she fell, dying at her tender young age. She was never to hear the story of the pure hearted prince.
It was just as well, an ending was never written.
Soon after her death, the town that so feared the writer and his tragic stories finally swarmed him; cutting off his hands so he could never do anymore damage.
It is rumored he died laughing.
…
Long, long ago, there was a lake that lay just outside of a town.
Resting on the shore of the lake was a tiny, newly hatched duckling; sleeping, as her tender eyes had not yet become accustomed to the light of the world.
A voice echoed through the wood surrounding her.
“Ah, so this is what you’ve become? Ah ha! How appropriate! I suppose you were always rather duck-like in the past, weren’t you?” There was an amused mumbling.
“Hn, you're even more useless than you once were.” the voice sighed happily. “You were never one to disappoint me, were you my dear?”
A pair of ghostly hand caressed the small bird, which continued to slumber on.
“The prince has arrived, the knight reborn, the raven released. This story may at last have its conclusion. “
Another burst of elated laughter.
Two enormous swirling eyes then fixed on the snoozing duckling.
“Are you prepared little duck? It is almost time for you to save your beloved prince. You promised, didn’t you?”
A strong gust of wind suddenly blew over the placid waters.
“Will you be able to aid him?”
She twitched; ruffling her small, new wings.
“Will you be able to handle it, Princess Tutu?”
~A story without an ending is a tragic thing indeed.~