Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me, and neither to the characters. I only claim some responsibility for those whose names are unfamiliar. The rest is up to the story.

Side Note: I wanted to look further into what Princess Tutu was like before 'The Prince & The Raven', or even during it. But for some reason, I didn't want to just give a straight fairy tale story, even though it was sure to be more than that. So, I ended up with what you will find here. This takes place a number of months after the end of the series, so there will definitely be some spoilers involved. I hope you enjoy it~


Fakir danced in a practice room alone. Well, mostly alone. A few students had wandered into the upper loft and were probably watching him. He was a good dancer, but he didn't consider himself the best at the school. Perhaps with Mytho gone, they were searching for another target. But Fakir had little trouble ignoring them now; he concentrated on his balance, his form.

He had been trying to write, for quite a while now. But writer's block was not so easily overcome – especially when he was worried about what effect his 'inspiration' might have on the real world. He was tired of glaring at blank paper, though. So he was now trying to forget what he needed to be doing, and let his body slip back into old routines. He could focus on placement instead of paper, follow rhythm instead of writing words. Honestly, ballet had just been a passing interest for him as a child, but he'd wanted to stay close to Mytho, and Mytho was a natural at dance. Since that time, the art had grown in Fakir. It gave him control when nothing else seemed to work. He might not be the best at brandishing a sword, or a pen, but he could at least direct his own body with confidence. Unlike a certain other dance student…

His lip twitched at the thought of Duck trying so hard in her beginner class to stay balanced. She was improving, for sure, but – well, had been improving. Before.

Hardening his face, he pushed the thought from his mind; he was not going to get caught up in that again, not right now. He flew into another exercise aggressively, putting his energies into turnout and articulation. He went through twice on each side, urging himself to do better each time. When he finished, he was sweating more profusely. Apparently, something he'd done went well, because he heard someone clapping upstairs. He just closed his eyes and normalized his breathing. The clapping was abruptly stopped, followed by whispering. He needed to keep moving, keep practicing. Fakir centered himself, then went on to another round of exercises, this time less haphazardly, and more basic.

The greater control was evident in his dancing. After a few more rounds, he was no less tired. But the ache wasn't charged with emotional upheaval – it just filled his muscles with a sense of accomplishment. His last exercise hadn't used extraordinary moves, but he had done something, fully and completely. The sense of completion felt nice in comparison to the anxiety of what he hadn't done, which had been lingering over him for days, but was now happily absent. For the moment. He was tired of worrying; he didn't want to fall into that trap again.

Fakir went out to get a drink, and thoughts of writing poked at the back of his brain. Still avoiding the problem as a whole, but wanting to get rid of the nagging, he decided he would write later; something he wouldn't have to worry about. Something that couldn't possibly change everything around him. For example, something that had already happened, so it couldn't really be changed. Fakir stared at the small pool of water after he had quenched his thirst.

But what could that be? The nagging pressed.

… Tutu. He had been able to write about Duck while she was Princess Tutu, and when she was a duck. He couldn't seem to write anything good about Duck right now, but maybe… he could write about Princess Tutu from before. In the story. Before everything changed. Before Duck became Princess Tutu. Before she lost so much…

Fakir left the water fountain. He would write about Princess Tutu, what she was like in The Prince and The Raven, before any of the huge events. No worrying about the future or his impact – just telling the tale of a princess, probably in love. That was how those things went, right? And that particular story had already happened; he just needed to give it a stage. Surely that would get his mind going on writing again, and free him from worrying so much.