Fakir awakes with Duck curled up on a velveteen pillow beside him, her head buried under her wing, small chest up and down. He picks her white tunic off the floor and hangs it on a knob, next to his cloak.

He has overslept; summer nears, the nights are shorter, and he stays up until she begs him to sleep. He has pounding headaches all the time now. Many times, he wakes with his forehead resting on parchment, ink leaking down the paper from the quill still grasped in his hand.

He puts on his cloak and washes his face in the basin of water next to his bed. Duck still has not woken. She likes to pretend she sleeps when he does. Fakir feels her eyes on him at night. She will not be up until after noon.

Fakir walks up the stairs and into Prince Siegfried's room. He does not bother to knock. Siegfried requested he do away with that formality long ago.

Siegfried lies on the bed, fully clothed, stroking his wife's cheek. She lies in bunched-up blankets, always beautiful.

In a town controlled by a story long ago, when Siegfried was known as Mytho, Rue used to sneak into his room to touch him at night. Once, Fakir hit her. She cried and he felt like a monster. After that, an unspoken truce existed between them. They both loved Mytho. They both wanted him to never change. They would put up with each other, for now.

Nowadays Rue says she loves Fakir, just like she says she loves Siegfried and Duck. Rue enjoys being able to give away her love, because now it means she will get it back in return. She is a princess, but she is still the black swan who could never say "Love only me" without thinking it a lie.

Fakir knows Siegfried notices him come in, but Siegfried does not move. He traces the curve of his wife's face.

"My Prince," Fakir says, and bows.

"My Knight," he sits up and gives a little nod. "How is your lady?"

Fakir shrugs. "Tired."

It is sad; Siegfried did not find out Duck was Princess Tutu until years after the story finished. Duck and Siegfried treat each other as if they are fragile, knowing they once loved but, upon hindsight, could only find infatuation.

Fakir and Rue are too selfish for them to call it anything different.

"The grounds are secure," Fakir says, his tone overly formal. "No assassins or thieves have been around the castle in a month."

"Thank you, my Knight," Siegfried says.

Fakir leaves.

He closes the door and then stands in the hallway, breathing shallowly. Fakir hates talking to Siegfried, hates trying to find Mytho in him, and hates himself for not accepting his Prince will never be heartless again.

Not…hate. Not really. Just discomfort and mild irritation. But it is easier to assign powerful emotions to his whims, because he is used to feeling them.

He goes into his room, sees Duck still sleeping and all well, then gets his sword. Fakir threw it into the lake a year after the story ended. When he came here, it awaited him. Siegfried explains it through his own sword—cut in half by Fakir, then resurrected as he became the Prince. Swords here are less weapons and more manifestations of power.

Up at the gate, Siegfried's great-nephew (time works differently here, warps and moves as if underwater one second and jumps the next) keeps his eye trained on the road ahead and his hand on his scabbard. Fakir walks up to him.

"Sunny morning." he says.

The nephew does not even turn to look at him. "Midday, milord."

"Who else is on watch?"

The nephew rattles off a list of names. All Fakir's loyal men.

"I will join you for a few hours."

"Yes, milord."

There is no need to say more.

Fakir patrols the grounds. Many people come and go. They all know him. The Prince's protector. The brave, dashing knight. They respect him for his role. Siegfried says to never let them know that when he is not standing at the gates with his guard, he is in his study putting ink on paper in dangerous shapes. They would burn him alive.

Fakir leaves his men later, to go up and see if Duck is awake. She is not on her pillow. He heads for the Prince's private garden, to find her swimming in the small pond.

Rue sits on the edge of the water, watching Duck, bread pieces floating on the skirt of her cream dress like lily pads in water.

"Milady," Fakir says, and bows.

Rue starts to hum; a waltz from a ballet she once performed. "Do you dance anymore?" she asks. He shakes his head. "I dance," she says. "Siegfried humors me. Does Duck?"

Duck is always too tired to dance. A month ago, at night, they snuck into Rue's practice room and tried a pas de deux. It was good to touch her, as always, but the two were wildly out of practice and something was not right. She has not brought up dancing since then.

"Sometimes," he says.

"It must be hard." she breaks off a piece of bread and tosses it to Duck, who swims after it and fishes it out of the pond. "Loving her, I mean."

He nods.

"Siegfried often has other business to attend to, you know," she throws another bread piece and giggles as Duck fetches it. "He recognizes that I am capable, but the Lords fear women with power. At least he consults me before most big decisions."

"You would be a wonderful Queen in your own right, milady," he kneels down next to her, takes some bread, and tosses it to Duck.

"If only," she sighs. "The King is growing restless. He wishes we would have children."

Fakir never gave a thought to children in Kinkan—how could he, when he was in love with a duck? Now, it seems even more impossible. Siegfried and Rue, of course, could have little princes and princesses and the kingdom would rejoice. He has claimed a happy ending that is not his. Not even his men know about Duck.

"Will you?"

Rue shakes her head. "I do not know. The Raven's blood has a way of corrupting and changing. It runs through our veins. My body has never worked right. When I was Kraehe, I would throw up at least once a day. I rejected anything that was good to me."

"And now?"

"And now I wait and wonder."

"Duck would adopt if we were more stable," he says. It feels right to confide in her after she admits something like that. Truth for truth. "But I would probably have to raise the orphan, and I have enough duties as it is without having to explain to a child what happens to his mother during the day."

"Duck would make a good mother," Rue says. Duck is closer to them now, watching them intently. She quacks in protest. "Really!" Rue reaches out to pet her head. "Better than me. You could be a nursemaid. We could raise a prince together."

It is alright for Rue to speak of such things. But nothing can ever come of them. Fakir offers Duck his arm, and she waddles out of the water to perch on it. He kisses the top of her beak and turns to Rue. "Thank you, milady."

"Always a pleasure to talk to old friends, sir knight and kind lady."

Duck gives a little nod. Fakir keeps his hand on her wings, steadying her. They go up to his room. He lays her on her pillow. "See you after sundown," Fakir says. "Um. Do you want to dance?"

She just stares up at him with wide eyes.

It frustrates him, trying to understand her. Even when she is human she is foreign. He goes to his study.

Siegfried is waiting.

Fakir bows. "My Prince. How long have you been here?"

"Not long." Siegfried smiles apologetically. "The meeting with the Lords was tiresome. They have far too many demands."

"That I must satisfy, of course." Fakir sits down and gets out quill pen and paper. He dips the nub in ink and holds the quill aloft.

"There is a disease spreading among the hogs—" before Siegfried can finish, inspiration strikes and Fakir is scribbling furiously. He finishes the story of the miraculous healing by a barmaid that teaches the farmers about hygiene and tenderly cares for all the sick pigs. "A feud between two of the minor lordships, also."

Problem after problem. Fakir's hand cramps up again and again. He goes through two quills. Some dilemmas refuse to be solved. He pushes himself until Siegfried puts a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

"Nothing is perfect, after all," his Prince says again and again. "Give it a rest. Sometimes storyspinning is not enough."

Fakir thought that in a few years, he would master the art. Now it is painfully obvious that only a lifetime of practice makes total control possible. His technique is refined and his power is vast, but his own impatience and lack of confidence erect walls everywhere.

When he finishes, the tips of his fingers are coated in ink, and the paper is stained with sweat. Siegfried fetches a bucket of water, and they bathe fully clothed, throwing water around until everything is soggy and blurred and clean.

Siegfried keeps trying to turn it into a playful duel. Fakir lets his Prince splash him and laugh.

He knows Siegfried believes he must loosen up, unwind a little, but it feels like he has curled himself around this future, worked so hard for it, and even the tiniest bit of release will allow everything to slip through his fingers.

These fingers, as if trying to grasp something, start combing through his hair. Siegfried fills another bucket and keeps it still as Fakir watches his reflection, wetting and smoothing his hair.

Siegfried opens his mouth, but closes it. What he would have said remains unspoken: you never cared about your appearance in Kinkan, where mirrors were made of silver and I was heartless.

Siegfried sets the bucket down. "My Knight?"

"It's nothing," Fakir says, then realizes his mistake. "It is nothing, my Prince."

He will not risk letting contractions slip into his speech again. They must pretend they live in a fairytale. In a ballet.

Fakir is crying.

"Fakir?" Siegfried asks, this time not mine, not Knight, not a role that should have never been. "Fakir, are you alright?"

"It is nothing." Fakir stands up. He never shows weakness in front of Siegfried. "Nothing."

"Duck?"

"Yes," he says, and it is weak to blame all his problems on her, but in a way, yes, it is her fault, so he will say it.

"I hope someday—" now Siegfried's voice is fading too. "—someday—"

Someday people will stop sacrificing everything for you. Someday I will start to view you as a friend, not someone to look brave for and take care of. Someday you will realize that Duck loved you, all her heart and soul loved you, and Princess Tutu only exists because you used to dance like you understood movement.

Fakir hopes.

He reaches out and hugs Siegfried, holds him. They both shake into each other, and neither has the gall to call the other on it.

"Kiss her for me," Siegfried says.

Fakir nods.

He goes to his room. Duck lies on the bed, in her white tunic, a woman now. She looks up with half-lidded blue eyes.

"Let us go dance," Fakir says.

She gives him the ghost of a smile. "You are too tired. Come here and lie down, silly."

He lies down, wraps his arms around her, kisses her. "From Siegfried," Fakir says.

"I was not waiting long for you."

A knock on the door. He startles up, but she grabs his arm and pulls him back down. "Come in," Duck says.

Rue opens the door. "The servants are all asleep."

She sees Duck in Fakir's arms and smiles.

They all lie on the bed and talk to each other about Kinkan, friends and ballet lessons and fields of flowers and filling Mytho's lonely eyes with light, and then going back—someday, some excuse, to talk to Autor and Pique and Charon and everyone. To sit next to the fountain and kiss under the tree.

"I spent so much time in Kinkan miserable," Rue says. "I cannot wait to be there again when I have everything."

Duck tells Rue about the few years she and Fakir spent in Kinkan after the end of the story, her as a duck, him as a writer. She talks of trivialities and monotonies, but anything is trivial and monotonous if it goes on long enough, from an enchanted town to a magic kingdom, so Rue devours each detail.

"Pity you cannot walk around outside, now…you look like you need some fresh air." Rue says it innocently, but Duck takes the hint and drags him outside. As they go they see Rue lie back on Fakir's bed and rest her eyes.

They run to the pond. Apples are swelling on the tree next to it. Paper and pen rest on the stump in front of the tree.

Duck waits at his feet while he writes, her hair spilling onto the paper. "I will get ink on you," he says, and then adds, softly, "idiot."

She looks up at him, eyes still innocent in places they should not, cannot be. He writes of a lake of despair filled with gears, a stage above and below.

He writes of how once, a duck watched a prince dance on the surface of the water, and then she went below with the intention to submerge herself, and has never been alone since.

Story finished. She takes his hands and leads him under the water. Finally, breathing again. They begin a familiar dance, and they are not in a pond anymore. They are just beyond a town controlled by the story, and he murmurs of her true self, and makes a promise.

This time, she can tell him she loves him and promise right back.

The dance finishes, yet another time. He cradles her in his arms as the sun rises and plays on the top of the water. Her form shifts, and suddenly she belongs to the lake and the water presses down on him.

He paddles to the top and emerges from the lake. Duck sleeps in his arms, the wind ruffling her feathers.

It is not happily or ever, but it is after, and that was all he wished for.