A/N: This is turning into a much longer project than I had originally envisioned. Chapters centered on Autor, Ahiru and Mytho are in the works. To tide you over in the meantime, please enjoy this glimpse into Kraehe's mind.

ETA: Oh, and the shift in verb tenses was intentional, in case anyone is wondering. I've had this hanging around my hard drive for so long it didn't occur to me people might think otherwise. xD

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Kraehe dreams of Princess Tutu, Ahiru, whatever that duck wants to call herself; for it is clear in this dream that she is only a duck, albeit with a spark of human intelligence in her eyes. Kraehe, cruel as she is, knows that Ahiru does not deserve to suffer. A stupid girl even when she was still a girl, she had no choice in becoming Princess Tutu, and no idea how much returning Mytho’s heart would hurt Kraehe--hurt Mytho. For that reason she will not take the simpler route of slitting the animal’s throat, but she cannot trust Ahiru to remain as she is, lest she ruin things again. She drops the story, a parchment scroll covered in Fakir’s scrawling handwriting, into the fireplace. The duck’s eyes dim, and she wanders away, never to return except by chance.

She dreams of Mytho, no longer Prince Siegfried, no longer ruined by his knight’s twisted love. He lies on her bed, his wrists and ankles tied by red silk ribbons to the bedposts. His perfect body is only marred by a tiny scar on his left breast, but Kraehe does not count this a fault, because of what it signifies. He is heartless once again, mindless and without volition, unable to defy her. He cannot love her, but he cannot love anyone besides her, and that satisfies Kraehe more than anything as she makes her way to the bed, lying down beside him. She does not touch him sexually, and has no need to; he is too pure, too perfect to be defiled by such an animalistic act. She merely strokes his hair, and asks that he tell her he loves her, and he replies just as a heartless angel should: “I love you.”

She dreams of the black knight spread-eagled before her, held fast not by the ribbons that bound her husband, but by sharpened feathers through his hands and feet (“Lovely people, those Romans were,” Autor said once, “at least when it came to executing criminals,” and he laughed, and she thought to herself how very nearly perfect he was). His eyes are far from blank, so wide open the irises are fully visible, following the knife in her hand as she holds it above him, teasing him with the promise of pain and death. She does not know whether he wishes for death or fears it at this point, and she does not care. He is but an object to her, not even a dog like the other Spinner is. A doll, albeit one that can bleed and scream. A toy.

Then the story in her mind takes an unexpected turn. The knight is no longer staring wide-eyed, but glaring, as though the prospect of death neither terrifies nor entices him. He opens his mouth and does not scream, but speaks like a man. “I will not give you the pleasure of hearing me scream,” he tells her flatly. “Do as you will.”

Kraehe’s eyes narrow. Furious, she tears a gash from his collarbone to his navel with her knife, and he... makes no sound.

She wakes in a panic, shaking her pet, who as usual wakes as soon as he is touched. “Autor,” she demands, gripping his shoulders. “We will kill Fakir someday, yes? You promised me. You promised me we would kill him.”

“I promise,” he replies strongly, “someday.”

Kraehe sighs in relief and tucks his head beneath her chin. “Tell me how he’ll scream.”