31_days | [April 10, 2007] [Princess Tutu] Sunflower Yellow

Title: Sunflower Yellow
Day/Theme: April 10: Recollection of light
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Uhrmacher, Autor
Rating: PG

“You…you’re reading a book by Drosselmeyer, aren’t you?”
“Ha-ha. That’s an odd way to start a conversation…but yes, I am.”
“I’m…sorry. I just…couldn’t help but notice. He’s one of my favorite authors.”
”Really? Mine, too!”
“Really…?”
“Yes! …What’s your name?”
“Oh…I’m sorry. My name is Uhrmacher.”
“Uhrmacher? That’s odd, but I like it. …My name is Johanna.”

The first thing Uhrmacher noticed when he woke up that morning (once he blinked a few times and orientated himself) is that it was startlingly quiet for a Saturday morning. Johanna had grown up cooking for herself, and always insisted that the servants should have time off on the weekends. Besides, she said, she enjoyed cooking. So Uhrmacher always expected to be woken up on Saturdays by the sound of banging pots and pans and the sounds of cupboards being quickly opened and closed. (Johanna was never accused of being elegant. Beautiful, yes, but quiet or elegant? No. “There’s a reason I’m not in the ballet division!” she had once told him with a laugh.)

He frowned, sitting up and reorganizing a few papers that had been shuffled around the desk in his sleep. As he did so, his caught a glimpse of a paper that he didn’t remember being there the night before. He picked it up, noting that it seemed to be written in his wife’s handwriting, and quickly scanned the page.

It appeared to be a story, but he couldn’t make much sense of it. A nightingale…and…she felt she had to leave her cage to save a treasure…? What did that mean? And when had Johanna begun to write stories again? She hadn’t done so since…

The silence in the kitchen once again bothered Uhrmacher. The nightingale felt she had to leave?

Tossing the story aside, Uhrmacher got up from his desk and quickly searched the rooms of his house. Autor poked his head outside of his room as Uhrmacher walked past.
“Dad…?” he said, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “What’re you looking for?”
“…Nothing in particular. I’m just trying to figure out where your mother went to. Have you seen her?”
“Huh? No. I just woke up.”
“Hm…I think I’m going to go out for a walk. Stay here and be good.”
“I’ll go with you!”
“No, Autor. Stay here.”

Uhrmacher left the house as soon as he could, ignoring his normal worries about his appearance. She couldn’t have gotten far—the ink on the paper appeared to be relatively fresh.
He walked the path he knew she often liked to walk throughout the town, but didn’t notice any signs of her. This is silly, he told himself. She probably just needed some fresh air. Nothing happened to her.

She wasn’t still upset about the argument they had the night before, was she? Uhrmacher frowned. No, it wasn’t a particularly bad argument; surely she wouldn’t still be upset.
He walked a little faster.

He was crossing the bridge when he saw it out of the corner of his eye—a weathered hat caught on a tree root that was growing into the river. He recognized it instantly—straw, with a sunflower-yellow ribbon tied around it. (Yellow was always her favorite color. Bright and cheery. That color was all over their house—plates, bedding, tapestries. She had even had a sunflower in her wedding bouquet.)

Uhrmacher quickly ran down to the bank, nervously holding onto the tree root as he leaned out to retrieve the hat. He was careful not to fall in—the river was particularly dangerous because of recent rains…
He shivered when he finally had the hat in his hands. It was hers…there was no doubt in his mind it was hers. It was her favorite.

He didn’t move from that bank for a long time, simply staring at the hat. If he had found the hat in the river…and if she was missing…then, logically…she must be in the river as well.
So…she fell in, then? How long? He should go get some help; surely with some help they could find her…

He frowned. This bank was impossible to get to at night—they kept the gate locked. In fact, they did it to keep people from falling into the river at night. He climbed back up to the bridge, leaning against it and looking out.
She was never the most elegant woman…she could’ve fallen from here, couldn’t she?
…No. The bridge railing was high. He was a tall man, and the railing still reached to his chest—even he would have a hard time falling in.
…Unless he climbed over it and...jumped.

…No. She did not jump.
…But it was extremely difficult, if not impossible, for her to fall.
…Why? There was no warning. She seemed fine. Worried about Autor, but as full of life as ever. Why would she jump?
…Unless…her powers overwhelmed her.

No. No, this was impossible. Some sort of mistake…

Uhrmacher stumbled back to his home, barely conscious of the world around him, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. A town controlled by stories. A man long dead. A woman that discovered a love for writing. A beautiful woman that loved to sing and play the piano and tell stories that way…but also wrote stories on paper…and when she did…

A nightingale. A nightingale that wanted to escape her cage to protect a treasure.
A woman that loved to sing. That expressed fear for the lives of her son and husband.
A town controlled by stories, by a puppet master long dead.
Puppets…

The pieces were there. They seemed to fit, but…at the same time…

When he reached his home, he put her hat back into wardrobe, even though it was covered in mud and soaking wet.
“Dad? Did you find her?”
Uhrmacher turned and looked at the boy staring at him from the doorway. How could he explain something like this to a child…?
“No,” he said, hesitantly. “I couldn’t find her. …She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, Autor, gone. She’s…missing.”
“So why are you here? We have to go find her!”
“…We will…later…I’ll ask the guard to help me look.” He should at least find her body if he could, after all.
“No. Now! I want to look for her now!”
“Autor…I think it may take a long time to find your mother.”
“But why? Why isn’t she here?”
“…Someone didn’t want her here.”
“What? Why?”
“…Because…because everyone’s a marionette, Autor.”