Disclaimer: I do not own "Princess Tutu" or any of its characters, and am posting this story solely for entertainment purposes.


Surefooted, he dances through the fog, feet treading light on roof tiles before pushing himself off into moonsilvered space. His back arches for the sheer joy of it. He can't see the next rooftop when he leaps into the fog, but he lands with perfect assurance, pirouetting expertly before a saut de chat takes him back into the air.

White-shod feet make no noise as he dances from roof to roof in the moonlight. He pauses when he lands on a turret of the city wall, striking a raised-leg, head-turn pose that might be a mime for shock or surprise. All there is to see is fog and the shadowy suggestion of trees, but that's more than has ever been there before. He's lived in Kinkan Town all of his life, but he cannot recall ever having seen anything outside the wall before now.

Then again, there's little he remembers from day to day anymore other than sleeping in sunlight and hunting in moonlight.

And dancing. He remembers dancing.

He dances off into the night, white feet twinkling, gray-clad body all but invisible in the fog. He dances a solo to the sound of wind through the trees, capering through the night with no audience but himself.

He doesn't miss the applause, exactly, as he vaults over a chimney pot. He only knows that something is missing, that something in his routine has changed and changed drastically. He yowls once in frustration, but he doesn't stop dancing.

His footwork as he makes his way along the ridge of a steep roof is exquisite. There is no reason for it to be exquisite other than the fact that the moon is shining and he remembers what it was like to dance.

Shortly before dawn, he dances a brief pas de deux with a bat. The dance ends with his teeth in the bat's neck rather than with an embrace, but it is as satisfying an ending as he could wish for at the end of a night like this.

As the sun rises and the fog lifts, the little gray cat finds his way to a hayloft where he can sleep, belly full, in a morning sunbeam. In the afternoon, he will check out the tortoiseshell queen he smelled on his evening rounds. But for now, he will nap, and if he dreams of dancing on two legs, he will remember only what he needs to of those dreams the next time he dances in the moonlight.


Author's Notes: The title of this piece is a line from the poem, "The Cat and the Moon," by William Butler Yeats. When I was doing a final edit on this piece, I was delighted to find that a grand jeté is sometimes called a saut de chat (cat's jump).