(no subject)
Fakir had long wanted to return people to their "true" selves. He did not think such power as the ability to change reality belonged in the realm of men. Men were petty and fallible. Hands that twitched and mouths that misspoke, replacing what he meant to say with harsh words. Fakir knew very well how much he lacked the ability to describe what was with what he wanted it to be. He wanted to be a knight, but instead he was- and Ahiru was-
Ahiru was a duck.
However, how could he say that when what they were meant to be, what they were intended to be was so tragic? True, Mytho was a prince, but one beleaguered and set upon by the problems of the world. Rue was a human and not a daughter of the monster raven, but she was also an orphan and had been denied love all her life.
Ahiru was not Drosselmyer's.
Ahiru was the only thing Fakir could write about. And in his distant memory he thought back before the books and before his failure, back when his words were clumsy but heartfelt. He remembered her then, ink and parchment and a bright anticipation filling up so his tiny heart might burst.
Ahiru was his.
And in the final battle when the prince he had spent his life protecting was on the brink of failure all Fakir could do was cry out for her. All he could do write her struggle. It tore him apart inside to continue the tragedy and write out each kick and hit laid upon her poor body. He swore to whatever storyteller beyond that if he could just make everything all right again, he would let the stories write themselves. He would lay no claim on a world whose suffering and sublimity were without design.
Ahiru was not his.
At the end he cradled her body, he couldn't find the words to describe how he missed and yet didn't miss her. Princess Tutu had indeed vanished in a flash of light. But he didn't love Tutu, he loved Ahiru. And Ahiru was his happiness as long as she was all right. She was his joy as long as she was herself. Because, because...
Ahiru was hope.