Once upon a time, all that was left was a duck and a boy, both left by the two that were closest to them, and though it was for the best, the pain never quite left their bodies.
Staring at where Mytho and Rue had once been, Fakir felt the ache of loneliness begin to creep in. For years now, for his whole life it seemed, Mytho had been there beside him. Fakir had pledged this life to protect him once more, to ensure the ending to the story never came to pass in the tragedy and drama that Drosselmeyer so wished.
And now? Now it was done.
Mytho returned to his store as the rightful Prince, no doubt destined to lead his kingdom into glory with the ever-steadfast and loyal Princess Rue on his arm. The knight had not died, but Princess Tutu had disappeared into dust.
Well, not technically.
Because Tutu was here, flapping her yellow wings in Fakir’s palm, but it was not the same Tutu they had known before. She squawking out what Fakir could only assume was a tearful goodbye. He could well imagine what Duck would be saying.
She would be crying, holding Rue close and telling her to stay well. She would hold back from telling the happy couple to stay here, to live out their lives with her and Fakir as four best friends. She would lay her palm over Mytho’s and tell him that he will be a good leader. Mytho, of course, would have been slightly confused as to why Duck cared so much, but Rue and Fakir would know, would envision her in the white attire. When they would leave, Duck would force a smile until the door shut before crying once more.
Instead, though, all Fakir had to go off of was the movement of her wings and trying to decipher what she meant.
Though, he supposed it was better than nothing at all. At least Duck was still here, even after all that had transpired. At least they had each other.
After a week or so, the pair settled into an easy routine. Duck commandeered the bathroom most of the time, the open window allowed her to come and go as she pleased, and the bathtub was always filled for her to swim around. What she did in the day, Fakir was never certain, but anytime he poked his head in to check, she was either there or just returning from a trip out.
Fakir spent all of his time outside of class writing. He wrote until the sky darkened and the callouses on his hands were equally rough as those on his feet. He wrote about small things, little changes that would not fundamentally change the world they lived in but would help him hone his skills. Anything that would eventually allow him to turn Duck back into the girl he knew, into the human she deserved to be. After all, it was his ancestor’s doing that wrought all this trouble and distress onto her. It was Fakir’s responsibility now to fix this. It didn’t matter what it would take, how little sleep he would get, how poor he would perform in his classes, how little food he ate. None of that would be any concern when he could see Duck’s smiling face again and know that he had finally done right by her.
A month had passed before Duck had to put a stop to Fakir’s self-destruction.
Admittedly, Fakir hadn’t noticed Duck flitting about his home in search of something. She was always there, and so the noise of her wings simply faded into the background as he focused on his writing. He didn’t notice when she had pulled his ballet slippers and tights out from his bag. No, he only noticed when it was dropped into his lap.
He looked down at his uniform before feeling a familiar pressure on his head. Duck did this sometimes now, sitting or sleeping in his hair as if it were a nest. He had chastised her for it the first time, saying that he knew he hadn’t showered recently but he wasn’t made of twigs.
“What is it?” Fakir asked in exasperation. For most simple things, he and Duck had found a way to communicate. Through wing flaps and taps of her beak, he knew when she wanted to talk a walk around the town, when she wanted to hear how his classes and his stories were going. But when it came to something more complex, whatever she had meant in throwing the ballet clothes, he was lost.
Duck flew down and picked up one slipper and dropped it onto the manuscript he was working on. Fakir wiped the shoes off of the still drying paper, trying to salvage the material he had written. No, it wasn’t anything major he had composed, but still. He needed to keep practicing.
Hearing the flutter of wings again, Fakir looked down to see Duck perched atop the fallen shoes on the floor, her wings folded in front. He could almost see her now, arms crossed and chin high as she told him something. Now it was just deciphering what the something was.
“You want me to practice?” Fakir guessed first. That would have been fairly odd; out of everything in this world now, ballet was the least of his worries.
Duck shook her head and he tried again, “You…don’t want me to practice?”
A little nod from the bird had Fakir puzzled, “Why don’t you want me to practice?”
To that, Duck flew back to his desk and plucked the fountain pen in her beak, “Because I should write?”
Duck shook her head again, leaving Fakir far more confused than he had been. His voice became louder, more frustrated and angry as he stood. He wasn’t angry at Duck, not really, he was furious that she couldn’t communicate, that the pair had to play charades every time they wanted to have a simple conversation. He was furious that he hadn’t been able to fix this yet.
“Then what should I do, just sit here and do nothing? Do you want me to just give up and move on and do….do what?! What am I supposed to do? I can’t just fly around and spend hours in the tub like you, I have things that need to get done.”
He knew from the moment he said it that he had crossed a line. This wasn’t Duck’s fault, none of it. Putting the blame on her accomplished nothing. Fakir’s head looked down in shame, “Duck I didn’t—”
The sound of a loud squawk stopped him from saying anything else. Looking up he saw her in a facsimile of first position, wings as close to the rounded ballet posture as they could be.
How was it that Duck knew exactly what it was that he was feeling in his heart at that moment? Her eyes were sorrowful yet strong as she began to dance in her awkward, avian way. It was nothing like any of the dances Fakir had seen her do before. It was a bit clunkier and more disjointed than the pas de deuxs she performed as Princess Tutu.
Fakir wondered if this is what it had been like when she had helped save Mytho. He had only heard Rue tell him about it the morning after, Fakir having been stuck away in his room writing. But now he could understand how it could move an entire population. It was so genuine and honest, every movement clear that Duck was performing this through her heart.
It was as if everything clicked into place for Fakir at that moment. Duck threw her heart and soul into dancing when she was human, but Fakir had never held that same passion. No, the closest he came to this love and devotion for a craft was his writing.
Duck finished her routine, wings folded over where her heart was, one leg pointed back in tendu. Fakir clapped softly, if he had a rose he would have thrown it on the makeshift stage for her. Even without the moniker of Princess Tutu anymore, Duck was able to make him feel at ease, help his complicated feelings on the matter feel understood.
Sitting back down at his desk, Fakir held out his hand for Duck to leap into, “I understand, I think. Thank you, Duck.”
It took Fakir only a few days after that until he finally left the Academy. Mr. Cat hadn’t been all that surprised, noting Fakir’s lack of interest in ballet as of late. It wasn’t only just the pull and obligation he felt towards his writing, but the fact that ballet class had become unnerving. Nobody spoke of Mytho, of Rue, of Duck. It was as if the three were wiped from everyone's memories forever, having made no lasting mark on this town or this school. In so many ways, it was no longer the place he felt comfortable.
Most days after leaving, Fakir barely left his home. There was no reason other than buying food, which could be done only once a week. Instead, he spent his time continuing to practice his skill. The changes he was making in reality now were larger, changing the color of his socks, making his candle never burn out, changing the handle on his door. Each new accomplishment invigorated him, it reminded him why he was doing this, who he was doing this for.
Days bled into weeks before Fakir was able to finally tear himself away long enough to notice that he hadn't known where Duck had been all this time. Sure, he had felt some tugs on his hair, but she always did it right at the moment he was reaching the climax of his story, when he couldn't stop his hands from writing out the next word.
"Duck?" Fakir wandered around his small home, trying to find the bright yellow ball of feathers he had grown to care for so much. He hadn't noticed, but it all felt emptier without her around. Everything seemed darker and more dreadfully mundane. Had he been able to accomplish major achievements in his writing? Yes, but he wondered how long he would be able to keep this up.
It was then that Duck flew back in through the open window, perching on table and cocking her head to the side as if to ask "What's wrong?"
"Duck, how do you feel about moving to the lake?"
Years had passed since Fakir uprooted himself and Duck to be by her lake. His ability had progressed enough at that point to build a home nearby, almost an exact replica of the one they had in the city. The difference now was, though, that he could write outside with Duck swimming happily in the water beside him. As he had suspected, it helped his writing immensely. It was as if the happiness and sense of ease that being around Duck gave him was able to be channeled into the writing itself. Fakir no longer struggled with his work going terribly awry. No, at this point it was barely ever incorrect.
He was considering this near perfect success rate when Duck shook him out of his stupor by sitting on his head once more. Fakir wondered....No. It was far too soon. He would want to practice more--but what more was there to practice? He had turned a sapling into a tree, built mannequins out of nowhere. He even was able to re-create one of Mytho's heart shards--it held no power, but it looked identical. If things went wrong, Fakir felt certain he could at the very least turn Duck back into a duck, bring her back to this. It wouldn't be ideal, but it wouldn't harm.
"Duck?" Fakir looked upwards until he saw a bit of a beak poking down into his vision, letting him know she was listening, "I was thinking if you wanted to try it--to become a human again, I can do that." He said it confidently only because he wanted to feel that confidence in his bones. If he could make Duck believe it maybe he could believe it too.
She fluttered down and landed in his lap, looking at him with hopeful eyes. She nodded vigorously, making Fakir crack a small smile at it. It was going to be so nice to see her excitement as a human again.
"Tonight, then?" Fakir suggested to another nod from the duckling. He didn't want to rush the process, but if he needed to undo it, if it failed, he would rather know sooner and be able to undo it to try again once more later.
"Tonight then," he confirmed and watched as Duck dove into the water.
That evening, Fakir opened up a notebook he hadn't touched since that fateful night four years ago. It had finished with Princess Tutu saving the day, and now Fakir was tasked with writing the epilogue. Duck had flown in to sit on the table as Fakir wrote, offering him encouraging flaps of her wings or squawks as he continued to write.
He tried his best to summarize the past four years accurately and quickly. He wanted to cut to the current moment, the most important moment as soon as possible. As he finally reached this, Fakir looked up at Duck and gave her a nod, letting her know that she should get in place.
Hoping that it would work, and assuming she would immediately transform back into a girl, the pair agreed she should be standing in the bathroom with a change of clothes there.
For another half an hour Fakir wrote, until he finally reached the end. The end where Duck had transformed back into the human girl she was before and would stay like that forever, leaving her and Fakir to live out the rest of their lives however they saw fit.
He was breathing deeply as he set the pen down, feeling as if that had taken more out of him than any ballet class ever had. Fakir waited for a moment, trying to hear anything coming from inside the bathroom, any indication on what had happened. He knew that he should ask, or go check, but the idea of having to witness his own failure.
Just as he was about to muster the courage to check, he heard the creak of a hinge and a familiar voice ask, "Fakir?"