It's dark, and the reddish walls are kind of a creepy color - and it gets creepier when one wall falls away, revealing an epic drop beyond that. And on the ground -
Duck cranes her neck over, trying to see what might in fact be on the ground. But as far down as she can see . . . there's just nothing.
Duck blinks and takes the hand, with a gesture that so awkward it almost verges on graceful. She jumps down, grateful for the support - it doesn't feel so far when she's got something to hang onto - and doesn't dare steal a glance at Fakir.
If she says thank you again, he'll probably just yell at her.
So she goes on, instead, eyes focused downwards: "When I first saw him, I just thought he was a really beautiful person. But when I looked closer, he had such sad eyes . . . and I thought if I became Princess Tutu I could do something for him . . . at first, that's all it was."
Fakir will do better this time. He's promised himself. I will not fear.
He raises the Lohengrin sword and steps into the guards and attacks of the first Marozzo sequence. It's surprisingly difficult, as if Fakir's body doesn't want to move the way his mind is telling him to.
I've practiced this four hours a day. It should be easy.
(In the depths of the machine, there is an awful creaking sound, and the wheels and gears begin to slow. Someone shrugs and waves a hand. "Let him," she says. "It hardly matters now." As if oiled, the mechanism slides smoothly back to normal...)
And then, a moment later, it is easy, and Fakir strikes one crow, and another, and another, with the ritual motions he's learned from Spoon. Each time he hits a raven, it vanishes in a cloud of purple sparkles. But behind these four birds, there's a vast and wild flock, and Fakir can't kill them all.
As Duck hesitates - maybe I'll turn into Princess Tutu, why haven't I turned into Princess Tutu? I could help him! - a stream of birds comes towards her, cruel beaks reaching, claws outstretched.
She tries to talk to them - if she can talk to them, if she can explain - but it's nothing like in the mornings, when she opens her window and the birds stream inside to be fed, and anyway she's so scared that she can't quite form actual words, just noise -
These birds aren't real birds, she realizes, as they shove her backwards, her heels skidding on the ground. Duck knows birds. She doesn't know what these are - set pieces, maybe, or feelings, anger and hurt - but they're not birds -
- any more than what's behind her heels, suddenly, is ground.
She lets out a scream in earnest as she starts to plummet.
"Idiot!" Fakir pivots away from the crows and grabs for Duck (incidentally letting go of the sword). But she's already too far down, and Fakir falls with her.
Duck doesn't know if she's more surprised, or surprised not to be surprised, and she doesn't really have time to figure it out because they're pretty much falling to certain doom and -
- they're on the ground and she's on top of Fakir, who seems to be breathing, so, uh, that's something!
"- sorry!" she says, scrambling to her feet, fully aware of how inadequate it is, but lacking in anything better to say. "Are you, are you hurt at all?"
Fakir pushes himself to his knees. They're a bit sore, but not unusually so, and when he says, "It's a miracle we're not," he sounds winded.
"What is this place?" he adds, looking around. It seems to be a sort of round, shallow pond in a larger round room, whose floors and walls, of stone and brick, are green with algae. Diffuse light comes from nowhere in particular.
The Lohengrin sword's fallen just far enough away not to injure either Fakir or Duck; Fakir collects it, wipes off the pondweed with the edge of his shirt, and sheathes it carefully.
There's a hole or something in the wall on the other side of the cavern from where Fakir is standing; Duck wanders over and squints into it, while Fakir is poking at the wall.
It looks like more stone straight across, but down . . .
Water! We could maybe get out through there.
On the other hand, it could just be a dead end and then they'd be stuck. If she was a duck, she could check it out, but -
She glances back at Fakir, who's just starting to sort of think she's okay as Princess Tutu - who's got no idea she's really just a totally useless duck.
Fakir, who looks like he's ready to try climbing the wall and probably break his neck.
It's dark, and the reddish walls are kind of a creepy color - and it gets creepier when one wall falls away, revealing an epic drop beyond that. And on the ground -
Duck cranes her neck over, trying to see what might in fact be on the ground. But as far down as she can see . . . there's just nothing.
She leans further out. "Waaaa . . . scary!"
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"No, it's nothing," she temporizes, trying to figure out how she's going to get down without falling.
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"What is your problem? Quit stopping in the middle of your sentences!"
Of course, the fact that every time Duck tries to say anything, Fakir cuts her off with a rude one-liner has nothing to do with this.
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Obediently, she turns her attention away from the drop and back to Fakir.
"I was just thinking . . . I've never really thought about what I liked about Mytho or anything," she says, fumbling for words.
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It's the kind of move a chivalrous dance lead might offer to his partner.
Fakir's never been a chivalrous dance lead before.
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Duck blinks and takes the hand, with a gesture that so awkward it almost verges on graceful. She jumps down, grateful for the support - it doesn't feel so far when she's got something to hang onto - and doesn't dare steal a glance at Fakir.
If she says thank you again, he'll probably just yell at her.
So she goes on, instead, eyes focused downwards: "When I first saw him, I just thought he was a really beautiful person. But when I looked closer, he had such sad eyes . . . and I thought if I became Princess Tutu I could do something for him . . . at first, that's all it was."
She takes a breath. "But now, I -"
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She's better at remembering what's truly important than I am.
Fakir, on the other hand, is better at watching for threats. For example, right now, a murder of crows is flying down from the roof of the cave--
"Run!" Fakir pushes Duck behind him. With a hiss of metal against leather, he unsheathes the Lohengrin sword and prepares himself to strike.
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Ravens - Fakir's afraid of ravens, and last time, when Kraehe -
"Fakir!" she cries out. She doesn't want to stand there and watch him get hurt again!
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He raises the Lohengrin sword and steps into the guards and attacks of the first Marozzo sequence. It's surprisingly difficult, as if Fakir's body doesn't want to move the way his mind is telling him to.
I've practiced this four hours a day. It should be easy.
(In the depths of the machine, there is an awful creaking sound, and the wheels and gears begin to slow. Someone shrugs and waves a hand. "Let him," she says. "It hardly matters now." As if oiled, the mechanism slides smoothly back to normal...)
And then, a moment later, it is easy, and Fakir strikes one crow, and another, and another, with the ritual motions he's learned from Spoon. Each time he hits a raven, it vanishes in a cloud of purple sparkles. But behind these four birds, there's a vast and wild flock, and Fakir can't kill them all.
Reply
As Duck hesitates - maybe I'll turn into Princess Tutu, why haven't I turned into Princess Tutu? I could help him! - a stream of birds comes towards her, cruel beaks reaching, claws outstretched.
She tries to talk to them - if she can talk to them, if she can explain - but it's nothing like in the mornings, when she opens her window and the birds stream inside to be fed, and anyway she's so scared that she can't quite form actual words, just noise -
These birds aren't real birds, she realizes, as they shove her backwards, her heels skidding on the ground. Duck knows birds. She doesn't know what these are - set pieces, maybe, or feelings, anger and hurt - but they're not birds -
- any more than what's behind her heels, suddenly, is ground.
She lets out a scream in earnest as she starts to plummet.
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"Idiot!" Fakir pivots away from the crows and grabs for Duck (incidentally letting go of the sword). But she's already too far down, and Fakir falls with her.
Splash.
Fakir gasps and snorts muddy water.
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Duck doesn't know if she's more surprised, or surprised not to be surprised, and she doesn't really have time to figure it out because they're pretty much falling to certain doom and -
- they're on the ground and she's on top of Fakir, who seems to be breathing, so, uh, that's something!
"- sorry!" she says, scrambling to her feet, fully aware of how inadequate it is, but lacking in anything better to say. "Are you, are you hurt at all?"
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"What is this place?" he adds, looking around. It seems to be a sort of round, shallow pond in a larger round room, whose floors and walls, of stone and brick, are green with algae. Diffuse light comes from nowhere in particular.
The Lohengrin sword's fallen just far enough away not to injure either Fakir or Duck; Fakir collects it, wipes off the pondweed with the edge of his shirt, and sheathes it carefully.
At least there aren't any crows.
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The ledge seems a looooooooooong way away.
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It looks like more stone straight across, but down . . .
Water! We could maybe get out through there.
On the other hand, it could just be a dead end and then they'd be stuck. If she was a duck, she could check it out, but -
She glances back at Fakir, who's just starting to sort of think she's okay as Princess Tutu - who's got no idea she's really just a totally useless duck.
Fakir, who looks like he's ready to try climbing the wall and probably break his neck.
It's not really a choice, is it.
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