where did this even come from?
So today I decided I would update at least one of my 2x5obsessions claims, and so I decided I'd do one for the Princess Tutu claim. This doesn't usually happen for me (though it really should happen more often), but I just sat down and started writing. Don't you love when something you write as an experiment turns into something unexpected?
As another note: I'm currently working on an original novel that's somewhat like a bildungsroman but includes political interpretations between two fictional countries. Hopefully I'll actually stick to this one. The second piece I'm working on at the moment is a multi-chaptered (again, hopefully) Avatar fic that's Zuko-centric with little to no romance. Something to look forward to, I suppose.
Title: Skeleton Son
Author: magicdragonomg
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: between PG and PG-13, for the sole reason that it's dark and a bit violent
Characters/Pairings: Fakir; Fakir/Ahiru if you squint
Summary: Fakir finds the outcome of his stories winding out of control, and with the weight of his words twisting and burning inside of him, he decides to tell Ahiru. She has a right to know.
Comments: written for the "Princess Tutu" claim at 2x5obsessions for the theme "wicked truths".
Fakir found his own subconscious perceptions carried on the story towards an ending he sometimes loathed to complete, and when he stared down at the final pages - which was in every sense literal - he could not help but feel as though it were all destined. What if Drosselmeyer were just pulling the strings, using his powers of story-weaving as a medium for which to ruin everyone’s lives again? This terrified him in particular because there were times where he could not prevent a story from ending in tragedy, and he shook with burning when he thought the life of a person was this.
For that reason, he never felt redemption. Ahiru had changed him since he discovered her long-gone identity as Princess Tutu, and since the defeat of the Monster Raven, but even she could not cure him from this. In fact, more so than ever, they were precise opposites of each other, and when they stood face-to-face, it was as if he were standing in front of a mirror that reflected the person he would never be. While Ahiru would forever be kind, loving, and of the most gentle heart, he would be forever tainted with that bit of accidental cruelty, that unintentional conformity to the gray areas between good and evil where the crow-children belonged. People didn’t ever really change.
He counted. He had written three endings he considered tragedies: in two, the person closest to the main character died, and in the last, the main character lost their sense of identity. Three times he felt his soul creak. His writing teacher at the academy said, “The outcomes of events in a story do no wrong: they are how the writer expresses himself.”
He remembered Autor’s diagram of Drosselmeyer’s descendants, and his attempts to stop shaking were given up with an icy wave that shuddered in the depths of his bones.
Night arrived with wintry stealth, and though the sky looked almost solid ink, the moon lay exposed in all its haunting starkness, the skeleton of the sun. All the words of his murders had twisted up his insides and seared his blood, but he had to tell Ahiru. God, he had to tell Ahiru, and she had to stop him. His eyes squinted with the fierce shame and guilt of his actions - just like that time; a child’s naïve world spun out of control Mom Dad no Danse just Macabre - but if there was any good in him left, he’d tell her so she could get away from him.
He moved down the stairs with unusual tautness in his legs and with his knees as stiff and rigid as tree trunks, but with the support of the rail, he somehow made it to the dining room. Ahiru stood deciding between recipes for tomorrow’s meals, and the task seemed so normal to him that he felt frighteningly alien for a moment. He couldn’t look at her beautiful face, and just her soft red locks of hair, glowing like a small fire in the evening light, made him tremble with yearnings to escape.
“Ah…A-Ahiru?”
She whipped around at once, for a second a deer trapped by the hunter. Then her expression softened when she recognized who it was, only to twinge with stricken worry at the manner Fakir approached. “Fakir? Are you alright?”
“Listen to me, Ahiru. I have to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He told her how he created the deaths of innocent human beings, by his own hands, unable to stop but able to at the same time, how he wreathed when loved ones were lost but his hands would not, as they were devoted to some deeper meaning within a bloodied witchcraft.
When he finished, he watched on the teetering edge of grief as her face flashed and her eyes widened with horrified measuring. Her stare upon him did not move, as though she was exposed to his stark skeleton soul underneath, and then as all animals presented with something truly frightening do, she fled. She started towards the door slow first, as if he would chase her if she was not careful, but then she broke into a sprint that tore her away from the house and down to the streets. Her brilliance was gone in an abrupt moment, and the room left behind palpitated with silence.
If there was any good in him left, he’d tell her his murders and then it would be all gone with only the devil remaining.
Except one day, when the dawn touched the edge of the windows again, she returned, and her red hair looked as lovely as ever while she hugged him with her entire self, desperately, and cried tears into his shirt.
As another note: I'm currently working on an original novel that's somewhat like a bildungsroman but includes political interpretations between two fictional countries. Hopefully I'll actually stick to this one. The second piece I'm working on at the moment is a multi-chaptered (again, hopefully) Avatar fic that's Zuko-centric with little to no romance. Something to look forward to, I suppose.
Title: Skeleton Son
Author: magicdragonomg
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: between PG and PG-13, for the sole reason that it's dark and a bit violent
Characters/Pairings: Fakir; Fakir/Ahiru if you squint
Summary: Fakir finds the outcome of his stories winding out of control, and with the weight of his words twisting and burning inside of him, he decides to tell Ahiru. She has a right to know.
Comments: written for the "Princess Tutu" claim at 2x5obsessions for the theme "wicked truths".
Fakir found his own subconscious perceptions carried on the story towards an ending he sometimes loathed to complete, and when he stared down at the final pages - which was in every sense literal - he could not help but feel as though it were all destined. What if Drosselmeyer were just pulling the strings, using his powers of story-weaving as a medium for which to ruin everyone’s lives again? This terrified him in particular because there were times where he could not prevent a story from ending in tragedy, and he shook with burning when he thought the life of a person was this.
For that reason, he never felt redemption. Ahiru had changed him since he discovered her long-gone identity as Princess Tutu, and since the defeat of the Monster Raven, but even she could not cure him from this. In fact, more so than ever, they were precise opposites of each other, and when they stood face-to-face, it was as if he were standing in front of a mirror that reflected the person he would never be. While Ahiru would forever be kind, loving, and of the most gentle heart, he would be forever tainted with that bit of accidental cruelty, that unintentional conformity to the gray areas between good and evil where the crow-children belonged. People didn’t ever really change.
He counted. He had written three endings he considered tragedies: in two, the person closest to the main character died, and in the last, the main character lost their sense of identity. Three times he felt his soul creak. His writing teacher at the academy said, “The outcomes of events in a story do no wrong: they are how the writer expresses himself.”
He remembered Autor’s diagram of Drosselmeyer’s descendants, and his attempts to stop shaking were given up with an icy wave that shuddered in the depths of his bones.
Night arrived with wintry stealth, and though the sky looked almost solid ink, the moon lay exposed in all its haunting starkness, the skeleton of the sun. All the words of his murders had twisted up his insides and seared his blood, but he had to tell Ahiru. God, he had to tell Ahiru, and she had to stop him. His eyes squinted with the fierce shame and guilt of his actions - just like that time; a child’s naïve world spun out of control Mom Dad no Danse just Macabre - but if there was any good in him left, he’d tell her so she could get away from him.
He moved down the stairs with unusual tautness in his legs and with his knees as stiff and rigid as tree trunks, but with the support of the rail, he somehow made it to the dining room. Ahiru stood deciding between recipes for tomorrow’s meals, and the task seemed so normal to him that he felt frighteningly alien for a moment. He couldn’t look at her beautiful face, and just her soft red locks of hair, glowing like a small fire in the evening light, made him tremble with yearnings to escape.
“Ah…A-Ahiru?”
She whipped around at once, for a second a deer trapped by the hunter. Then her expression softened when she recognized who it was, only to twinge with stricken worry at the manner Fakir approached. “Fakir? Are you alright?”
“Listen to me, Ahiru. I have to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He told her how he created the deaths of innocent human beings, by his own hands, unable to stop but able to at the same time, how he wreathed when loved ones were lost but his hands would not, as they were devoted to some deeper meaning within a bloodied witchcraft.
When he finished, he watched on the teetering edge of grief as her face flashed and her eyes widened with horrified measuring. Her stare upon him did not move, as though she was exposed to his stark skeleton soul underneath, and then as all animals presented with something truly frightening do, she fled. She started towards the door slow first, as if he would chase her if she was not careful, but then she broke into a sprint that tore her away from the house and down to the streets. Her brilliance was gone in an abrupt moment, and the room left behind palpitated with silence.
If there was any good in him left, he’d tell her his murders and then it would be all gone with only the devil remaining.
Except one day, when the dawn touched the edge of the windows again, she returned, and her red hair looked as lovely as ever while she hugged him with her entire self, desperately, and cried tears into his shirt.