06 - The Prince and the Raven

[herr_bookman]

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Autor had never liked heights, but he did say he'd die for her.

The rain slicked his steps as he clung to the roof's tiles, crawling on top of the girls' dorm where Rue had perched herself. He carefully stepped up behind her and stripped himself of his blazer, dropping it over her head.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, and the snap in her voice faltered as she looked out from the warm jacket.

Good question, Autor thought uncharitably. What am I doing here? He didn't know, except to possibly say that he still loved her, and that would go over marvelously. Tears stung his eyes again, and he was glad that his glasses were spattered from the rain, granting him cover.

He drew a breath through his nose. I have got to stop feeling sorry for myself, he thought, and removed his glasses to clean them. She's in trouble. Get it together, Autor.

"You're getting cold," he pointed out, trying to avoid her eyes. If he saw that ruby red color, he'd break again. "My uniform is waterproof."

"That part isn't," she said, waving a hand at his white shirt, now sticking to his skin.

"Rue," he said quietly, shivering in the damp. "Are you going to come down?"

"No," she said, turning her face away.

They sat there for a long time.

But she did eventually climb down, which terrified Autor, given how wet the roof tiles were. Thankfully, she was more graceful than he was; he slipped twice. They parted ways without a word.

By the time Autor had changed and found Fakir in front of Drosselmeyer's grave again, the other boy had Duck curled up in his arms, asleep. The rain had stopped.

"What happened?" Autor demanded, approaching him. "What is she doing here? Why did the Story--"

"I won't allow the Story to go backwards any longer," Fakir said, glaring in the direction of the grave.

"Fakir," Autor said, taking a step forward. "What are you trying to do? You aren't thinking about rewriting the Story that's controlling this town, are you?"

Of course he is! Autor scoffed at himself. What else would he do, with things as they are?

"I just want the power to protect people," Fakir said, clinging tighter to Duck. Autor stared at his hands, thinking of Rae and her fight to save the people she cares about--and those she doesn't. He felt hollow.

"Autor, can I ask you something?"

"What?" Autor snapped.

"Can my power really turn stories into reality?" Fakir asked. "Isn't it just recording what happens in reality?"

Autor adjusted his glasses. "Those things are the same power. If your power is inexperienced, naturally it will be pulled towards reality," he said. "But if your power is strong, reality should start to follow your story."

He raised a hand. "And thus, freely manipulating every person's fate would be a simple task." He didn't think Fakir had it in him, which was good. He probably doesn't even need my warnings. He doesn't even need me.

Rue didn't either. The thought stunned him. Was he needed at all? He wasn't the Spinner, and he clearly wasn't meant to die for love--or maybe even love at all. What was his purpose? What was he meant to do?

Did he even have a part in the Story at all?

"Hm," Fakir said, gaze trailing toward the grave again. Then he abruptly turned around and started walking off, careful not to jostle Duck in his arms.

"Where are you going?" Autor said.

"Home," Fakir called over his shoulder.

"All right," Autor said eventually, lost. "Get some sleep."

The next morning, Fakir came to Autor, to explain his plans.

"The prince of Prinz und Rabe is real?" Autor said, hands shaking with excitement, making his teacup clink against its saucer. "I see. And then, the Monstrous Raven became real and is now about to be reborn... This town really is being controlled by the Story!"

His father had told him so, and Autor had listened. But even with the stories Autor had grown up with as a child, warning him about Spinners, he knew that his father had a kernel of doubt inside him--which turned him into the bitter, old man that he was today. That same doubt wasn't present in Autor, but he was glad to have someone actually involved with the Story confirm its presence.

If only Fakir could tell Autor what his role was as well.

"As you know, I am the knight cursed with the fate of dying in vain," Fakir said, and if he felt anything about it, his face betrayed nothing. "So I can't protect the prince with my sword."

"And so you will Write?" Autor asked, and the question stung. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, concentrating on baking croissants and flying and all the things he could do, that he still wanted to do, rather than the one glaring omission in his life.

"That's right."

"Truthfully, it will be impossible to rewrite Drosselmeyer's Story with your power," Autor said, setting his cup down. "Since you are being written in the Story, turning your story into reality cannot be possible."

"I know that!" Fakir snapped. "That's why I want you to help me, Autor."

"Why should I help you?" Autor said, frowning. The thought that Fakir was the Writer, not him, tore into him. His fingers itched to slap the other boy whose pen would alter the Story.

"I have need of your knowledge!"

"And all I'm saying is why should I?" Autor said, folding his arms. He didn't know why he was allowing his bitterness to consume him. He'd talked to Katya and Athelstan about this, and he knew he had to do what needed to be done, but he still clung to the hope that he wouldn't have to give up his dreams.

Fakir took a step toward him, and Autor backed up, knocking his ankles against a bench against the wall. "I just want to protect people, don't you? This town is about to fall down around your ears and you're just going to stand there?"

Autor thought about Lucas, and his world lost, and Lohengrin, and his fight against the Monstrous Raven. He clenched his fists. "Damn it!"

He shoved past Fakir. "If you're going to Write, sit and Write. I'm making tea."

Autor searched his bookshelf, looking for a tea kettle with a floral pattern, and two cups with golden rims. Fakir approached the desk and sat, clutching his duck-feather quill. He shrugged out of his blazer and rolled up his sleeves.

Autor puttered about making tea, the precise ritual calming to him. Is this what I've been reduced to? Tea-maker and assistant? he thought angrily, shaking his head. He wondered idly if his father would be disappointed in him, and nearly laughed.

His fingers trembled as he set a full cup of tea on his--no, Fakir's--desk. "This tea is the blend that Drosselmeyer liked to drink when writing. Three parts Darjeeling to one part Assam," Autor said. He glanced at Fakir, who wasn't listening, and retreated to lean on the bookshelf with a sigh. "Why do I have to..."

Fakir said nothing, but Autor wasn't concentrating on him anymore. A squawking caught his attention. "It sure is noisy," he said, crossing to open the door.

Blood rained down from the pitch black sky, falling on the townspeople and transforming them into hideous, anthropomorphic ravens. Autor saw a child sprouting black feathers on a scream, and felt sick.

He slammed the door and ran back inside the room. "This is terrible, Fakir, the whole town has turned into ravens--" he started, and tripped, landing on his face and chest.

"Duck!" Fakir shouted, and leapt up from the desk.

Autor scrambled to his feet as Fakir called for Duck again. "Don't go out! It's dangerous!" He grabbed Fakir by the shoulders and blocked his path to the door.

"What?"

"More importantly, what happened to your hand?" Autor gasped. Blood streamed from Fakir's hand as he placed pressure on it. Autor's gaze traveled to the blood-soaked parchments on the desk. "And when did you write that story? What happened?"

"Drosselmeyer came and he... He made me write it."

"Drosselmeyer was here!" Autor whooped. Goosebumps prickled his skin. His idol, the man he'd devoted his life to, had graced them with their presence? He was actually here, in the shrine Autor had constructed? "Magnificent!"

Fakir seized Autor by the cravat and drew back a bloody fist.

"Wh-What is it?" Autor croaked, finally realizing just how angry Fakir was.

"Nothing!" Fakir said, dropping him only to shove past.

"Hey, where are you going?" Autor said, as Fakir opened the door. "Hey, wait!"

"What is this!" Fakir said, staring at the giant, bipedal ravens squawking in the courtyard. The rain of blood had stopped, but had left puddles in the cobblestones.

"It... It looks exactly like the crow festival scene written in Prinz und Rabe," Autor said, adjusting his glasses.

"The monster raven's curse," Fakir murmured, taking off. "Damn it!"

"Hey! Fakir!" Autor said, stepping forward, but then shrinking back. He had no intention of standing outside. He had no desire to be a raven. "The Monstrous Raven's curse? I wonder if she's all right?"

The boy turned and strode to the desk. To his relief, the story was still there, though the ink was smeared in places and the paper was soaked through with Fakir's blood. Autor gingerly lifted it by its clean corner and began to read, barely able to contain his excitement that he was holding Drosselmeyer's newest work in his hands.

The Lake of Despair? he thought, and an image of Duck, tired and despondent, walking into the lake to die bloomed in his mind as he read.

"The reason that you can't return the last piece of the pendant," Drosselmeyer had said to Duck, "is because you're scared of no longer being Princess Tutu."

"That's not true!" she said, clutching the pendant.

"Rue made her mark on the prince's heart by sacrificing herself to the Raven," Drosselmeyer said, and Autor gasped, nearly dropping the story. "Duck, by continuing to carry that piece of his heart, you will live on in the prince's heart, not as a pathetic duck, but as princess Tutu."

"I-Is it my fault?" Duck said, about to cry.

"That's right," Drosselmeyer said, almost gleefully. "And so to get the pendant off, you have no choice but to sacrifice your life! Drown in the lake of despair, Duck!"

Nauseous, Autor laid the story in the trash, and began to wipe off the ruined desk with a rag. That's the man I've dedicated my life to? A man who would kill a young girl for no reason? And Rue! he thought, and his breath caught in his throat. He bit down on his knuckles, trying to stop the sudden sting of tears high in his nose.

"We are nothing to him," the boy whispered, realizing it himself. "His playthings."

Toys, Rae had said.

After a few minutes of careful breathing, Autor sat down heavily at the desk, and stared at the door, numb.