Princess Tutu -- Fakir/Ahiru -- forget the goddamned title, just--just get out of my head Title: forget the goddamned title, just—just get out of my head Author: Mithrigil Fandom: Princess Tutu Pairing: Fakir/Ahiru Rating: PG
Prompt:desire that burns and cannot be expressed as itself – I want to know what he's writing about –
forget the goddamned title, just—just get out of my head princess tutu Mithrigil Galtirglin
Because this sort of thing can happen in stories, it began with an answer instead of a question. That answer was “No.” Not the vehement kind of No, or the complicated, nuanced No that cannot deny or forget how much yes went into it when it was born, but not the simple, clear-cut and accepting No either. It was qualified No, qualified for all manner of things, most of them administrative (No tend to make good businessmen). It was a conditional No, but the conditions made it stronger, fed it, instead of restricting it. In fact, as No went, it was strong, adaptable, obstinate, but not in a childish or petulant way. It was a No that had been said loudly, and often, and accumulated armor every time it rolled off the tip of Fakir’s tongue.
So this No asserted its presence at the beginning of the story, and was predictably crossed with a solid But. This No had defeated many Buts, in many places, of many levels of prowess and strength and craft. The But in question occurred to him on a particularly humid Sunday, when the bells of the local chapel were off-beat because the chain links had swollen from the heat. It was not a terribly substantial But, a superficial But. “But won’t she grow bored, in a world without music?”
The No that defines our story was mighty, and dispelled this But with little effort, cleared the corpse to the roadside and catalogued its defeat. “There is music in her world,” said No, “perhaps even music that I cannot hear. And I have no right to chance her feelings on the matter.”
The sound of chapel bells, off-beat and now also markedly off-key, tapered off as the No persisted triumphantly along its path. Like most No, this No resided in the Mind, having moved out of the Heart to distinguish itself from the weak No who were still mostly yes. The path from the fading music to the Mind was not a complicated one, but not without curve or peril or distraction. Having slain that previous But, the No suspected rightly that the reek of participle would deter any other Buts from attacking him for the time being. Despite this, there were other creatures capable of weakening absolutes like our No, and one of these, a proud Assertion, leapt out of the spindly, clawed trees at the side of the path and brandished his weapon at the No.
“Of course you have the right,” said the Assertion. “She’s a character, and you’re the Author.”
The No was on his guard, for Assertions did not usually attack alone. He studied the curve of the Assertion’s blade, and saw in its reflection three others at least, masked and black-painted, creeping out of the brush at the No’s back.
As was said, though, this No was a qualified No, a seasoned and veteran No, and hardened by conditions. When the Assertions flung their barbs at him, the No parried them deftly and swung about magnificently, felling two of the unvoiced Assertions in a single stroke. The first Assertion, the one who had spoken, recoiled immediately, but the No was nimble and chased him down, delivering a crippling blow that left the Assertion in a doubled heap.
The Assertion that the No had missed, however, still stood and had the breath to speak. “And with your power,” said the Assertion through its black mask, stained richly with the blood of its fallen fellows, “you can assure that she is happy, regardless of her prior feelings on the matter.” The Assertion’s cheeks pushed up the corners of his mask, in the vile and languid implication of a grin.
The No had fought this manner of Assertion before. Perhaps this one was even the same Assertion as it had been all those times before, behind the mask and under the paint. Assertions do not show their scars, and this never failed to anger the No. As always, the No attacked this Assertion. “I will not force her to be happy,” said the No as he missed the point of the Assertion’s counterattack, the No’s sword meeting only air.
Laughing, the Assertion buffeted No on the crown, staggering him, and for a long moment the world was black.
When the No woke, among the still and blood-caked bodies of the three dead Assertions, the hardy Assertion had robbed him of his weapon (and also cleared away the weapons of his dead comrades, as was their custom), but left him otherwise unharmed. The No, once he had accrued his bearings, set off down the path again, anger tempering his vigilance. He was not so far from home, anymore, but the path itself had darkened with the onset of maudlin night, as if the blackness induced when the Assertion staggered him had not fully lifted. Elsewhere, the chapel bells were sounding anew, worse off for the occluded night.
Weakened and unarmed as he was, the No knew that he would be easy prey for any counterarguments, and his craving for silence and comfort and memory, recovery, spurred him on along the path. When the cruel trees beside him became lost in the blackness, he began to run desperately, and when the sound of his feet had ground the chapel bells into mud,
“I need a third trial,” Fakir said aloud to no one in particular.
No one in particular asked, “Why?”
a Why erupted from the ground, and brandished its million binding claws.
Now, this No was a seasoned and tempered No, but even the brashest of No know not to cross paths with a Why. The Why are the most powerful and aggressive of fiends, with a thousand faces and a thousand mouths ringed with claws and teeth of silver that sucked color from the stars themselves. The Why were devouring creatures, menace to No and Assertion and Acquiescence all, and never has there been an encounter between an absolute and a Why that left both parties alive.
The No was stalled and frightened, but unyielding. “Because I love her,” said No.
“Then,” said the Why, spearing the No on its million claws, “why not?”
Black blood dripped down out of every breach in the No, and threatened to erase him entirely. Though his mouth was swallowed in the black, and though his tongue needed to skirt the edges of the blades that had already begun to tear him apart, the No would not be silenced. “Because she would not be her,” said No, “if I was to write her.”
Now, though this story began with an answer, it need not end with a question. The blood of the No ate away at the claws of Why, and set the beast convulsing and roaring. That particular Why died there, in the darkness of the path just outside the Mind. The No, though victorious, was not unscathed, and
“How the Hell is he supposed to walk away from that?” no one in particular asked.
“I don’t know,” Fakir said.
“What’s it called?”
“Forget the goddamned title,” Fakir snarled, “just—just get out of my head.”
“But if you let me go back to your heart,” said No, “you won’t have the strength to say me again.”