07 - Finale

[herr_bookman]

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Stunned by his discovery of Drosselmeyer's true nature, Autor had no choice but to wait for Fakir at the shrine. Thankfully, Fakir returned quickly, with Uzura and Duck in tow. Autor found he couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"Is it really all right to write a story about you?" Fakir asked her, as she prepared to leave, to fight the Monstrous Raven again.

She nodded and smiled at him.

"Princess Tutu, huh?" Autor said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. Of course she is. How could I have been so blind? he thought. Lohengrin would laugh at me.

Fakir gave him a dark look, and pushed his way inside to the desk. Autor had already prepared it with a new quill and ink well. Fakir straightened the crisp parchment. He sat down to his story, leaving Autor to his thoughts.

Autor sank down onto the couch, cradling his aching head and listening to Fakir's quill scratching away. The other boy had straightened his shoulders, looking resolved. Autor closed his eyes. So that's it, then, he thought. He's the Writer, not me. And he and Princess Tutu will end the Story. What happens now? What can I do?

He made more tea, ignoring Fakir's gasps and grunts of pain; Autor figured his hand must be bothering him.

"The ravens attacking Duck stopp- stopp- ...didn't stop!" Fakir finally cried, to Autor's surprise. Fakir jumped up from his seat, running to the door. "Duck! Duck!"

Autor caught him about the shoulders again. "Hey, wait!"

"Let go of me! I have to go!"

"Go and do what!" Autor snarled. "The useless knight wouldn't be able to protect anyone! Weren't you going to avoid dying in vain?"

Fakir stopped struggling, and stared at Autor.

"You decided that you were going to write stories, didn't you?" Autor said, setting his teeth. Don't you dare give this up! "Then write until the end! Concentrate!"

"Damn it!" Fakir said, and reluctantly went back to his seat.

Autor frowned. He curled up on the couch and penned a quick note. The quill felt wrong in his hands; he felt as if he didn't deserve to even hold it.

Uzura tilted her head, listening to the half-opened door. "Someone's coming-zura," she said, and Autor jumped. He'd forgotten all about her.

He crossed to the door and opened it wider. The Bookman, arm twisted and sprouting raven's feathers, dragging an axe behind him, was stalking to the door.

"Th-That's...!" Autor said, pulling Uzura back by the collar. "Get inside!"

"Leading the story into tragedy," The Bookman said, raising his axe as Autor slammed the door. "Unforgivable!"

Autor shoved Uzura out of the way and pressed his back against his bookshelf, moving it in front of the door. "Fakir!" he cried, watching the other boy lay his quill down. "Fakir, are you giving up!"

Fakir dutifully picked up his quill, and started muttering something about Mytho and Princess Tutu. Autor tried to pay attention, but felt the bookshelf slam against his shoulder blades as the Bookman swung his axe against the door. Autor spread himself out across the shelf, trying to catch his breath with each bounce.

Am I going to die here? I don't want to die! The realization shocked him; he did want to before. But he didn't have time to turn it over in his head.

"Duck?" Fakir gasped, staring at his broken quill nub. "Duck!"

I see, Autor thought, frowning. So he can write stories about that girl?

"Damn it!" Fakir said, replacing his quill tip. "I can't stop the ravens from attacking her!"

Autor leapt back with a cry as the Bookman's axe rent the door, knocking over the shelf and revealing him. "I've found you, you damnable descendant of that abomination!"

"Wait," Autor said, holding up a trembling hand. His heart beat a frantic staccato against his ribs, and his breath caught in his throat. "Let's not get violent!"

Autor laughed in his head, high and reedy, finding it hilariously ironic that what he'd learned in Milliways again and again would come to the fore here: I am not a fighter. How on earth was he supposed to protect Fakir and Uzura from a madman wielding an axe? How was he to protect himself?

"All of my comrades have turned into ravens!" the Bookman shrieked, raising his withered arm. He hacked his way into the room and advanced on Autor, who backed up near to Fakir's desk. "Cutting off your hands will be an insufficient punishment."

Autor shoved Uzura behind his legs to keep her away from the man. The Bookman swung his axe in a high arch, and Autor caught it with his sylladex. Electricity arched over the book as the axe split it almost in two, and Autor knew it was lost to him. "Fakir is trying to end the story!"

"Make him stop!" the old man shrieked. "Look out at the town full of ravens! Don't fight against this anymore with your untrained power!"

Autor thrust his book forward, only to be pushed back by the axe. His arms strained against the Bookman's, and he turned his head as the axe pushed down through the pages, close enough to his forehead that he could feel the cold radiating off of it.

Sweat cut a line down his neck as the Bookman screamed at him. "The story is still being written with a strong power! His inexperienced hand will only bring unforeseen tragedy!"

The Bookman growled, and wrenched his axe away from Autor. The damaged sylladex flew off into a corner, and Autor stumbled forward with a cry.

The Bookman raised his axe, bringing it down upon Fakir. Autor leapt, grasping the Spinner by the shoulders and ripping him out of his seat just in time. "Look out!"

The blade stirred the air around Autor's face before the Bookman imbedded it in the desk. Fakir and Autor slammed into the floor.

Autor looked into Fakir's shocked eyes and realized something with startling clarity: Fakir had to live. Autor was expendable. Well. If this was to be the boy's fate, his part in the Story, then he would play it to the hilt. Before he had time to breathe, Autor pushed off the ground with a snarl.

"Write, Fakir!" Autor cried, tackling the Bookman around the middle just as he raised his weapon again. The boy rolled with the old man, grappling for the axe all the way out to the vestibule. Autor seized the man's wrist and slammed it onto the ground, sending the axe spinning out the ruined door and on to the cobblestones.

He punched the Bookman, and he went still. Did I kill him? Autor thought, frantically looking the old man over through vision blurred by a lack of glasses. He checked his pulse, and was relieved to find that the blood on his hands was from a man unconscious, not dead. He glanced back into the room, head throbbing, and stood on shaky feet.

"Fakir," Autor cried, his voice ragged and desperate. This madness had to end, and only Fakir could do it. "Write! For the sake of those who are waiting for your story!"

He heard Fakir's gasp, but could no longer see him. Overwhelmed, Autor fainted dead away.