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The feathers fall. Rue closes her eyes, folds her hands over her heart, breathes, and—

The world freezes.

"No," says a voice, quiet but certain. The shadows part to show a young woman, in a fluffy blue sweater, sitting on a chair. There’s a laptop resting on her knees, and behind her is a wall of still gears. "I can’t do it."

But the story has to go on.

"Oh, I know, I know," she says to — no one, anyone? "I know, but I can’t write it. I can’t let her make this choice, I can’t—don’t you see? It takes me apart every time I have to."

That’s not the point. This isn’t her story, nor is it yours. There are no choices here.

"Don’t say that," responds the woman at the laptop, annoyed. "There are plenty of choices, and you know it. I just can’t write Rue making this one. It's the wrong choice.

"I can’t write her through this."

There’s a long, listening silence as the writer puts her hand to her brow. "Okay," she says, quietly. "Let’s see how this goes.

"Drosselmeyer, this one’s all yours for now."

There’s a moment, and with a creaking noise the gears start to move, slowly at first and then faster.

Rue closes her eyes, folds her hands over her heart, breathes, and becomes Kraehe.

In the background, behind the music, the gears of the story are click-click-clicking.

It is night; the crows have been tapping at the windows.

Rue looks out, briefly uncertain as they always make her--of her safety, of pain, of worth--but her hand goes to the latch quicker than it ever has before.

In the other hand is the amber stone.

Kraehe knows what to do. The crows bring her a skull of one of their kind, and she sets forth the table. Into the beak she places the stone, steadying it so that it does not fall. In the darkness of the room, she can only see by the purple glow of the working, and the red eyes of the ravens in the room.

She is angry; angry to the point of tears. Mytho hurt her, and will continue to hurt her.

I won't lose you, she promises, mouthing it unknowing, not to anyone.

The hate condenses in her hands and stretches into a single black feather. She sends it to the stone, and it accepts it--accepts it with ease that speaks surely of the similarity of love and hate.

There, she thinks, it's perfect now.

Later, Rue laces it onto one of her best velvet necklace chains in place of the old pendant.

Before she sleeps, she takes cold water and wipes the tear stains off her face.

It's dark here, in this bed of raven feathers.

Kraehe's leaning against the solidness of Mytho, listening to his shallow breath as he lays against the piles of feather-blackness. He's silent, quiet, like a doll.

He has been, ever since she took love from his heart.

That's what he deserves, for choosing another princess over here, she reminds herself. She steels herself, and then starts to laugh quietly.

"One prince can't have two princesses," Kraehe says, stroking the side of Mytho's face before raising up on one elbow and looking into the distance, smile playing on her face. "Isn't that right, Herr Drosselmeyer?"

They walk off, with the jewel cupped in Mytho’s hands. Rue watches him, a fond smile slipping onto her face. A gift for someone he loves?

"You like it that much?"

"Yes," he says, not looking up, and Rue tilts her head so she’s in his line of sight.

Then she smiles, and straightens, looking ahead. She keeps her voice mild, to hide the small happiness beneath it: "So you're going to give it to me, right?"

He stops, and looks up—Rue turns to meet him and smothers the sudden creeping worry.

"Rue," he says, then stops. He catches her eye. "Sorry, this is—"

Rue's still, and holding onto herself above the hurt, for a long moment. She can hear the sound of wings. "I was just kidding," she answers, with a quick lying smile. "Yes, I wonder who the recipient could be…?"

Mytho pulls the jewel slightly towards himself, mild face troubled as he watches it.

"May I see it for a moment?" she asks, and he nods, handing it over easily. She picks it up, and holds it aloft slightly. This is love? "It's beautiful," she murmurs, "but it's missing something…"

"Really?" asks Mytho, reaching to it with more concern than — she drops the stone.

"I’m sorry," she says, picking it up before he can. "This is so important… lend it to me for the night?" Mytho turns from her to watch the amber, glowing slightly in the sunlight. "I'll fix it up so it’s even prettier… so it will bind the heart of the one you love to you."

He nods, as she knew he would. "Okay, Rue."

"Look forward to it," she admonishes him, and smiles.

Rue finds Mytho alone, outside of his practice room, and smiles. She reaches one graceful hand upwards to lie alongside his face. "Hello," she murmurs.

"Hello, Rue," he replies, his voice as soft and amber eyes as kind as usual.

"You’ve been too busy to see me," she leans slightly closer, and feels his minimal nod and his barely-there breath. She briefly considers telling him to apologize, so she can hear it and pretend that he means it, but her mind quickly dismisses the thought. It’s too painful a lie. "Walk with me," she says, instead.

"In the town?" he asks, interest sparked in his eyes. Her heart hitches slightly, but she doesn’t think it shows. She backs up, slightly, dropping her hand to waist level and then completely down.

"In the town," she repeats, as if testing the thought. "That would be nice."

"Okay, Rue," Mytho says, gaze following her as she goes to his side. She links her left arm in his, and they go.

--

As they walk through the town, Mytho looks around with a curiousity that scares Rue down to her bones. She wraps her other hand on his arm, too, and leans against him slightly. He half-smiles down at her for a brief moment, before looking back up. Mytho..., she thinks, sadly, if you get any more of your heart back I know you’ll drift away from me.

Above the shops there are ravens cackling. She knows she’s one of them, one of his enemies, even though she loves him.

I just want to erase my memories of Kraehe, and stay Rue forever, for you.

But Rue knows that won’t happen. And even deeper, she knows that once her Mytho is the Prince, it won’t be Rue his heart will long for.

She hears a music box playing. She looks up.

Rue should get changed, and she should sleep. But instead she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, dressed for class, staring at her dresser. There’s some inertia holding her there, like if she moves…if she moves...

She never finishes the thought. There’s a noise, at her window, and she looks over, ~~scared~~ startled.

And she moves. She walks to the window, and looks out, and sees the eyes.

It’s like she’s in a dream. That explains everything. That explains how she follows, when the raven flies away.

They are standing behind some trees, the girl and the raven, but the girl still sees Fakir running off, frantic. She still sees the waterspout from the river, Princess Tutu and the Prince stepping off of it.

Tutu turns to go, but Mytho stops her.

He says, wait. He says, I don't want you to just disappear. He says, when I think of you, I can feel a small light being kindled.

The girl stands there. She can’t move. She can’t think.

He tells Tutu, restore my heart.

She feels her lips part, in a silent gasp—silent because there’s no air in her lungs, because she’s burning and she—

The raven next to her shifts, and she thinks it pleased.

Tutu puts her hands out for the shard, and the girl’s lips tighten.

The world is black and tumultuous, the world is always black and tumultuous, but from a sudden lull in the storm the ballerina in black descends.

“Who are you?” calls the other ballerina, bright and shining, and she laughs.

“Princess Kraehe.”

“Princess Kraehe?” asks the other, but Kraehe is not listening.

Kraehe is opening her hand to pull out the shard, red and glistening and alive. “What is this?” she asks, mildly.

“Give it back!” demands the other.

“I won’t!” She snaps, suddenly angered. How dare this intruder try to command her? “I will give you nothing. I will let you do nothing.”

The anger boils over into feathers, sent at the other, making her stumble. Princess Kraehe laughs. “Don’t get close to the Prince.”

Her laugh hitches on the thought, reality intruding on this nightmare-dream. “Who am I?” she asks herself, and in another storm of feathers she disappears.

She takes the Prince, and the shard, with her.

Mytho is safely asleep, lying in the cottage where Fakir will find him. By him, like a lady's favor, is a raven feather.

Rue sleeps in her bed, drained. She never did change out of her clothes.

(When she wakes up, she’ll remind herself that the fading unpleasantness was a dream. But that doesn’t explain the ache in her heart.)

Rue knows what to do when she’s left to herself. She doesn’t laugh and talk with the other girls; there's usually no point to it. She does not read, not often—there is little to interest her in any story but one.

She finds Mytho. Or if she cannot find Mytho (he is in a private class, he is sequestered in the boy’s dormitory, she is stuck in a bar at the end of the universe) she shrugs her thin shoulders slightly, goes to the practice room, and dances.

She purchased a pair of ballet slippers from the Bar, and she wears them as she stretches, as she practices the basic steps. Neko-sensei has taught her well the importance of the foundation. First position, second position, arabesque—the phrases tumble in her head with something like order.

She switches to her point shoes later. The basics are good, but Neko-sensei will know if she loses her edge here. Not only Neko-sensei, but the other girls in the advanced class, and Fakir, and they will sneer. She squares her shoulders and breathes in, deep, looking out over the grounds that the window of the ballet room shows. (When she rests, she sits there, back to the window.)

(Her calluses are getting stronger. Her feet are getting stronger. She doesn’t fall, and she feels justified.)

Fakir comes, in the afternoons, angry and silent. He’s tired already, but she doesn’t know from what. Still, he dances, and they ignore each other for the first few days.

After that, they dance together sometimes (once he has finished his stretches, his basic footwork), because ballet is far more than just the solo pieces. They talk rarely. Neither of them is in the mood for quarreling, and this isn’t the place for it.

When she doesn’t dance, she sleeps.

When she doesn’t dance, or sleep, she tries the door.

She’s still here.