A/N: This plot happens all too often. But probably because we Fakiru fans know it will happen...at least, it is very probable that he did without our knowing. *shrug*
Princess Tutu does not belong to me, but to its creators.
Act 1: A Prologue Written
Once upon a time in a land far away,
A knight and his lady were cursed, for they
Could never confess, their love gone unheard
For one is a man and his sweet girl a bird
Whole worlds apart, yet sweet love's strings
Pull them together, poor sorrowful things!
It was a balmy evening by a beautiful lake. The cool lake water tempted Fakir sorely, but he had other things on his mind.
It was almost the anniversary of the end.
It was a whole year after the Prince and the Raven Princess's story had concluded, a whole year of no more Princess Tutu. Ahiru was as her name dictated--merely Duck, the somewhat clumsy fowl in Fakir and Charon's care. Duck, who used to be the girl Ahiru. Who used to be Princess Tutu.
Fakir's fingers clenched as he struggled for the correct word, the correct definition. He had to make this perfect, perfectly perfect. He was Fakir, after all--the noble, brave knight. Cool, efficient, charismatic, serious, secretly sensitive, pessimistic Fakir. Fakir, the knight. Fakir, the heir of Drosselmeyer. His hand moved in smooth German, ink that can turn to life, a testament to his grandfather's powers.
"This is hard," Fakir sighed as he paused in his writing, looking over his words carefully. His light brown fingers were calloused but gentle as he read the stripling story with little comfort. He leaned back on his wicker chair and looked out into the lake again. "Just a little more, Fakir..." He wanted this gift to be magnificent, life-changing even...
A yellow head looked carefully at the wooden dock and made a little quack that served as her laugh. "Quack, quack quack." Of course it's me. Who else? She did her little laugh-quack again. Even in quacks, she knew he would understand simply because of her nature.
Fakir couldn't help but chuckle. Ahiru was always comical, always stuck in some slapstick situation, usually involving one of her "dear friends"--Pike, Lilli, and Azura. With her sunflower bright wardrobe and super-long braid, Ahiru was never ordinary. Even as a duck, she looked very funny. But probably because of her nature as naive, goofy, considerate, big-hearted Duck.
"My Ahiru, you've grown."
It was true. Ducks don't age in the same pace as humans did, being a more short-lived species. The Ahiru that was once Fakir's junior by four years was suddenly in the same developmental stage as a young adult Fakir's age would be. Her tiny duckling body was now large, her breast wider and wings grown majestic. Her neck, though not as long as a swan's, was curved and graceful, and her round beak had tapered and flattened. The only thing that did not grow was...
"Quack!" the duck replied and looked upward on its head. Yes, but not this.
Upon her head was a long yellow feather that never lay straight. As a girl and as a princess it stood out as a bright orange cowlick that refused to be moved. It seemed smaller, compared to her younger days, but still refused to change.
Fakir's leaf green eyes twinkled as he saw that feather that never lay straight. "Right. Except for that silly little cowlick." He shut the book with his story papers inside, hidden carefully from Duck's sight. "Well, I'd better go help make supper. I'll be back with yours soon, so don't swim so far off, okay?" The young man stood up and stretched himself, yawning. His fingers ran through dark hair hung in a thick ponytail to his back.
"Quack." Yes, Fakir. The young duck winked and nodded her head. She paddled close to the dock raised her head for an affectionate pat, which the young man complied. Ahiru watched him jog back to their house and waited for her supper.
Herr Drosselmeyer rubbed his hands together. His strange doublet suit and grand cape dressed him to flamboyant perfection, though this usual display of gaiety didn't cheer up the grand story-teller at all. Beside him toddled a small child no taller than his knees, with seafoam green hair and white-wood features. Her poufy garments reminded one of a harlequin, and a small child's drum was strapped to her front. Herr Drosselmeyer patted the puppet on the head, stroking his beard with his other free hand.
"No more interferance from me, but I must say this is uncharacteristic of my progeny!"
The little doll Uzura hopped about on one of those rare visits to the clockwork dimension Drosselmeyer resides in. "What's wrong with Fakir, zura?" she chirruped. "Something strange, zura?"
"Well, Fakir seems to be hard-pressed, little one!" Drosselmeyer clucked, watching one rotating gear with Fakir's face on it. Like a television screen, it displayed the young man and his guardian in a kitchen preparing food. "He cannot seem to write the story he longs to write the most!" Fakir was breaking up pieces of bread in a dish for Duck.
"The story he longs to write the most, zura?" Uzura tilted her head curiously. "What story is that, zura?"
Herr Drosselmeyer split his face into a wide smile and laced his fingers together. "Well, you could go ask him."
The little doll continued looking blankly at him. "Okay, zura. I'll ask Fakir, zura." With a bow and a bang of her little drum, Uzura walked away and disappeared from view.
Drosselmeyer was positively tickled. "Now this story I am interested in." He turns his pointed face and bulging kaleidoscope eyes toward an invisible audience. "What do you think will happen now?"
Hours have passed, yet he still cannot sleep.
Fakir was sure Charon would scold him in the morning for staying up so late, but the urge to pick pen on paper was too great. And now, he found himself in an intangible gray area of empty thought. He groaned and rested his face on the wooden desk of his single-candlelit room, thinking over the obstacle he now faced.
"Great," he murmured. "Just great." Some masterful storyteller he was turning out to be. He folded the papers back into the book and decided to call it a night, blowing out the candle. He wished he could just forget about polishing it, but what a terrible story it would be! No convincing necessity, and quite haphazard. Even the ending was with a lame "and they lived out their lives as they pleased, the end." Fakir brought his elbows on the table, chin in his folded hands. "What to do..."
"Fakir has a big problem, zura?"
Fakir nodded, half-asleep. He was probably too irritated and sleepy to be surprised at Uzura's entrance now. "Yes, I do." He stretched and blew out the candle at his table. "Oh well, no use staying up. I might as well finish this tomorrow." He looked back and bade the little girl-doll goodnight as he fell back into his bed and fell asleep, murmuring things of "it's just a story..."
Uzura scampered over to Fakir's desk and looked at the story paper. Her little wooden eyes skimmed over the story of a young woman who became a duck, who was restored...The doll's mouth was in a perfect comical oval shape as she looked at each word with wonder. Thinking hard, Uzura had a bright idea.
Rummaging through Fakir's things, Uzura found the The Prince and The Raven--Drosselmeyer's piece that brought Tutu to existence. Carefully--and as quietly as possible--Uzura slipped in the story paper inside the book right after the ending page. She slipped it back inside the trunk and carefully fixed the desk to look as messy as the young writer left it. "I hope this fixes Fakir's problem, zura!" she chirped happily to herself. "This will help Duck, zura!"
Turning around in her gaily colored clothes Uzura rattattattatted away with her little drum and disappeared.