Word count:193 to 18, A total of 3,459 (drabbles)
Series/Pairing: Princess Tutu/FakirAhiru
Summary: He does not need her to be a princess.
A graceful curtsy then begins a haunting melody.
Her movements are fluid and it mesmerizes the crowd, completely drawing their gazes at her. White limbs arches like reeds against some invisible breeze as palms, open and accepting, receives the dark horizon.
The waning moon is her spotlight. The ominous stars are her torches.
Their astonished breaths are her music. Their silent hearts are her stage.
The strength to give her deserved applause is forgotten, as her story---a stream of unspoken words, a speech of heartfelt gestures--unfolds in a single performance.
"That was wonderful."
The crowd departs and she descends upon the make shift stage, her eyes still searching for him.
2. Roles/Murphy's law (correlated with drabble 1)
As a knight, it is his job to be prepared for the worst.
As soon as the final note ended, he was already here.
He waits at the bottom of the wooden stairs.
He waits for the curtains to finally fall.
Battles were won, calamities were prevented and problems were solved because of expecting such.
So when he sees her, attempting to run towards him from the stairs, he expects her to trip.
Because no matter how exceptional of a ballerina she has become, she is still Ahiru.
As her knight, it is his job to catch her.
In fairytales, wishes always come true.
So Ahiru never forgets to look for a swift white blur in the night while Fakir swirls his quill in ink.
Teal orbs glazes as they reflect her fire lit image. Her arms wrap around her slender legs, gathering them close to her chest. She nestles herself on the rug comfortably, as she sits before the fire covered in bundles of thick blankets and unbound coral tresses.
Was it worth it? He asks her one winter night.
Her yawn freezes half way. Huh?
Turning you human.
Why? She lifts her head curiously from her knees.
Because, He harshly responds. I wrote this
This is a dream.
He only looks at the existence of pain, of regret, of wounds and bruises that never heal.
This is false.
He cursed her to become a human. To stain her. She was an innocent, after all.
This is wrong.
Wavering crystalline azure orbs gaze at her feet.
The pink strands cover them from his stare.
He unconsciously reaches to tuck a strand away from her.
The ink-smeared calluses on the fingers were rough on her cheek.
This is real.
She can feel them better with skin than feathers.
This is true.
Yes. She firmly answers, determinedly seeing things differently from his perspective. It's worth it.
This is right.
He stands before his bed--no, it's now hers-- after realizing what he has done.
He did it.
"What is your problem with my braid?!" She screams at him one (annoying) day, as he again yanked that tempting appendage from her head again.
The fact that when he does, it always sparkle her blue eyes into blazes making her as it trails from the edge her calves seems to be the truthful answer in his mind.
(Too childish. It was already enough to have one brat in their serious relationship, damn it.)
But half-truths will suffice for her impending wrath, perhaps.
"It distracts me, moron."
Straws turn into gold.
Frogs turn into princes.
Swans turn into princesses.
Even ducks turn into swans.
So why, Fakir asks Aotoa in disbelief, is it impossible to turn a duck into a girl?
When she hides her dainty feet with beautiful lace shoes, he knows that they are a mask of her pain. She covers them layers upon layers of plasters on her blistered skin to avoid the blood to stain the shoes he bought.
So when he tells her to remove them in order to cure this, he would not hear the end of her protest to take her feet in his hands.
She flaps her way towards his feet as he writes on his desk, again striving to achieve the one fiction he would want to come true.
"I'm adding clothes." He flushes, a scowl set on his lips. "Let me finish, idiot."
She wants to cut her hair.
He vehemently protests to that bird-brained idiot's idea.
"It suits me! It can avoid getting more dirt in the house! It even saves us some soap!"
"No." He repeats, and grinds his teeth at her insistent stubbornness.
"If I don't," Ahiru waves the scissors dangerously and positions the blades to the start of her tight braid. The silver light lined the ends of her eyes. "I won't be able dance more perfectly."
"It's not a burden, Ahiru."
He knows what she thinks.
He does not need her to be graceful, to be trouble-free or to be practical.
He does not need her to be a princess.
"What? But Fakir, be reasona--!"
Heatedly, he took the scissors from her.