[rd][fic][Princess Tutu] Cygnus 2/3
One thing Ahiru knew was that all fairy stories must end. It was inevitable and a natural part of things; leaves fell from trees, the heat of autumn gave way to winter's chill, and birds and humans alike passed away. Eventually all stories ended.
(But she had a secret, held as closely as the locket at her throat, one which said that new stories always began.)
So even though in this way she was the "realist" among those she loved dearest, she was never afraid. What point was there in being afraid of winter, or death? She was a duck before she was a girl, a ballerina, or a swan, and to ducks there was no sense in being afraid of the inevitable. And after spending so long with Fakir, maybe a little of his insight had finally rubbed off on her, because she could look at their youngest child and see her story just beginning.
Cygnus
by K. Stonham
prereleased 17th December 2007
The nine children of Master Fakir and prima donna Ahiru were nicknamed "the swan troupe" by the teachers and students of Gold Krone Academy. Well, the first eight were. The youngest, it was occasionally speculated in whispered voices in back corners, had to be a changeling. Though she had her mother's hair and her father's eyes, she alone possessed none of the grace or poise that characterized the rest of their clan.
The few times those whispers had made their way to the ears of her father, though, there had been silent duels on the main lawn, inevitably ending with the slanderer staring cross-eyed at the tip of the knight's sword as it rested in the hollow of his or her throat. And to disprove those rumors, her parents lavished more love on Hakuchou than on any of her siblings--as if she needed it more.
"Done?" Rabe asked, leaning against the wall as Hakuchou exited the main dining hall.
"Yes," she replied with a sigh. He smirked and straightened, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. He showed to her how it came away smeared greasily black. Hakuchou immediately yanked out her handkerchief and started rubbing furiously at her face. Sighing, her cousin plucked the white square from her grasp and dabbed at a few specific spots.
"Why me?" Hakuchou asked as he tilted her head back to take advantage of the light. Her large green eyes blinked as Rabe wiped away the marks along her hairline.
"Because someone in this family has to be real," he replied examining her. He nodded once and let her go, neatly folding her handkerchief before returning it to her. "You're good with your hands. That has to mean something."
"I'm supposed to be good with my feet," she retorted, making the handkerchief disappear again.
"Whatever. Ready to go home?" Rabe looked out the window, where the earlier flurry of snowfall had died down to the occasional drifting flake.
Hakuchou scuffed her shoe against the hallway floor. "Sure," she muttered. "Mama and Papa will already know about me being late again."
Rabe's hand buried itself in the puff of red softness on top of her head, and when she looked up at him, he smiled gently. "And they won't care," he reported.
Hakuchou had to smile back; Rabe was just like that. "Yeah," she softly agreed.
*
Ahiru's mid-winter traditions involved stringing popped corn and dried berries on thread and decorating trees with them. It was a variant on her summertime feedings of the birds, and none of her children had ever questioned why they and their mother, to say nothing of their father and aunt and uncle and cousins, could speak with birds. It was just something that was, a special family trait that outsiders couldn't quite understand.
Hakuchou spun the thread that the treats were strung upon, evening hours spent quietly by the fire with her spinning wheel, measuring out the length and thickness of the thread between her fingers while Papa wrote and Mama read stories and sooner or later all of her siblings started talking or singing, like a tree full of finches. She listened and dreamed, but mostly just spun, good thread and yarn forming in her hands, ready to be woven into cloth and then sewn into shirts or sheets or breeches. It was her one talent, her skill with her hands, one Papa had guided when she was young, teaching her how to cook or letting her spend afternoons with Grandpapa at his smithy. She'd learned the basics of forging there, and helped out more and more often as he got older and his joints bothered him. Sometimes she thought about maybe moving in with him, into Papa's old room above the forge, and becoming his apprentice. But much as she liked making the sparks fly, it was the smoothness and warmth of thread and cloth, the flashing of a needle as it ducked in and out of cloth, that made her feel at home.
So she sat by the fire and dreamed of a tailor's shop all winter long.
*
Fakir liked the winter, when he could have all his family gathered inside the cottage in the evenings. He frequently found himself looking up from the work he was penning, smiling as he saw red and black hair scattered all around the main room, chattering like the birds they were.
It had been a shock when their two eldest had been born, Ahiru's first set of twins, and in fingering the infants' soft dark hair, he and Ahiru had realized that their children's hair was feathers....
Not that many people knew that. And Rue's children seemed perfectly normal, so Fakir wrote it off as a consequence of marrying a swan. Ahiru looked up from her book, as though sensing his thoughts, and tilted her head to one side, a silent question as their eyes met. Fakir shook his head, meaning it's nothing, and she smiled at him before returning to the story she read aloud.
Still, Fakir thought, letting his eyes rove over his seven sons and two daughters, they were all birds save for him. Once in a while he realized that and it made him feel like he was missing something, a secret they all shared that he could never know... but then sense returned and he remembered that family, and love, was a stronger force than any other facet of nature.
His gaze caught on their youngest, and his breath suddenly caught in his throat. The world faded away except for himself and his daughter where she sat spinning by the fire. Clockwork gears moved ominously behind her, their measured-out ticks and whirrs the only sound in his ears. Threads bound her in his sight, the flax she was spinning into linen turning the red of blood and destiny.
She's too young! he protested to whatever storyteller had caught his daughter in their web. Full-throated laughter was his only reply and he growled, suddenly angry. He knew that voice. Cousin...
She's as old as your Princess was, the storyteller he'd met years before told him. It is the fate of Drosselmeyer's kin to ever be tested. If you've raised her well and she's strong enough, then have no fear. And with laughter like bells, that presence vanished, the world coming back to the fore.
"Fakir?" Ahiru knelt before him, looking worried. She spoke softly so as not to alarm their brood.
Fakir looked at her face, ever lovelier the older she grew. Unbidden, one hand cupped her cheek and she nestled into it. Trustingly, when he didn't even have the power to protect their daughter... to protect her... to protect Mytho....
For all the power he had, Fakir had never been able to protect the people he loved best.
"I'll tell you later," he said softly.
The next morning, Ahiru's enchanted pendant broke.