[April 16, 2007] [Princess Tutu] Backwards

[haleysings.livejournal.com]

Title: Backwards
Day/Theme: April 16: Time
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor, Johanna, Professor Penguin, Fakir (briefly)
Rating: G

“What’s going on?!”

Autor looked up at the former knight briefly before ducking his head down again, struggling to remain upright against the fierce wind. The wind whistled past his ears, carrying harshly whispered words. Autor had felt the sensation before, but never quite like this.

“!utuT sscnirP ,elpoep tnanguper esoht raen eb ot suoregnad s’tI” ohce eciov s’reyemlessorD raeh dluoc ehs, evarg eht sdrawot kcab nward saw ehs sA…

“The story is flowing backwards!”
“What?!” Fakir looked over his shoulder at him, frowning. Autor couldn’t blame him for being skeptical—he could hardly believe it himself, even though he had—

He felt a tug on his shoulder, pulling him backwards. No! I don’t WANT to go back there!
“STOP IT!” he yelled—but whether it was to Fakir or the strings pulling him back, he wasn’t sure. Fakir’s eyes widened. “Hurry and stop it with your pen!” he said to him. The strings pulled harder, and he stumbled backwards, his legs beginning to move on their own. “Fakir—“ his legs propelled him backwards, stumbling past the Book Men as they walked back towards the grave, axes in hand “—you can’t let the story go backwards, people aren’t supposed to…”

His legs began to move faster, and he grew silent. No point anymore, Fakir was certainly where he couldn’t hear Autor anymore. Images began to flash before his eyes—a crimson-eyed girl removing her hand from his chest and backing away, then an image of electric energy crackling around him as he was thrown towards Fakir, then an image of him looking away from the grumpy descendant as he sat down to play the Spinning Song…backwards.

He watched a shadow of himself move backwards through the daily routine of his life: reading a chapter from a book before bed, going to the library, piano practice, eating his midday meal in the common eating area, sitting through Professor Penguin’s lectures, walking to school, combing his hair perfectly into place, fumbling for his glasses bleary-eyed as he woke up in the morning. Autor noted that day after day he performed his routine alone. A frown crossed his face when he noticed this.

 Suddenly he felt a jerk and stumbled. The wind and quickly flashing images stopped, instead leaving him in a scene with muted colors, as if it was from a dream, or a distant memory.
“Dead?” he heard his own voice say, muffled slightly as if he was hearing it from a distance. “What do you mean he’s dead?”
He blinked. Was that him sitting in front of that desk? Yes, he decided, that must be him—his hair was shorter then, and he seemed slightly awkward in a school jacket that was perhaps a bit too large for his thin frame, but it was still the same face he saw in the mirror every morning as he got ready for class.
Well, maybe not the exactly same face—there was no trace of the confidence he normally saw.
“I’m sorry, Autor,” his teacher said, sitting down across from him with a heavy sigh escaping his beak. “We only just received the news this morning. Apparently the doctor hadn’t expected it to progress to this point at all.”
“I-I don’t understand. He’s very healthy. There must be a mistake.” Autor winced when the boy’s voice cracked. He wasn’t sure if it was from emotion, or the uncomfortable affects of puberty. Probably both, he thought to himself.
“Pneumonia can be very deadly, Autor, even for generally healthy people.”
The boy at the desk buried his head in his hands, silent. The teacher in front of him hesitated for a moment, before leaning forward in his chair and speaking in a gentle tone. “We can give you some time off from school to visit your mother and work out the details. You’re a good student, I’m sure you can easily catch up with the class.”
“My mother’s…missing.”
The professor straightened. “She’s what?”
“Missing. For a while now. It is—was—just me and my father.”
“…I see. Do you have any close relatives you can go to?”
The boy shook his head.
“Aunts? Uncles?”
“Both of my parents were only children.”
“Grandparents?”
“Dead.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Finally, the boy stood up from his chair and adjusted his glasses. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to take that offer of the break…I have to arrange my father’s funeral.”

As those words left the shadow’s mouth, Autor could feel himself begin to be pulled backwards again. This time he didn’t even fight it, allowing himself to be pulled along with the backwards flow of the story. This time, instead of a lonely teen going about his daily routine at the Academy, he saw a curious, energetic boy constantly running from one adventure to the next. He watched as the boy pulled books from the shelf and proudly ran to a dark-haired man to read it aloud to him. The man would always smile and listen, but when the boy wasn’t looking, the man would turn to look out the window and at the river glistening in the distance.

 Off in the distance, he could hear a song being played on a piano, and a clear, gentle voice singing along with it. Autor caught himself humming along without even thinking about it—he had heard that song countless times when he was younger.

The story once again jolted to a stop, depositing Autor into a scene set in his own home. A woman with blue-violet hair sat at the piano, singing and smiling. On her lap sat a boy with hair the same shade. Her hands played the song slower than normal to allow the boy’s hands to rest on top of them, his little fingers struggling to keep up with her own to learn the song for himself. After a moment, the woman smiled and gently withdrew her hands. “Try it, Autor.”
“I can’t.”
“You can!”
The boy hesitated, then reached his hands out to the keys, slowly playing the woman’s song. When he hit the wrong note, the woman would gently correct him.
When the boy finished the song, he grinned and looked up at the woman. “I did do it!”
“See?” she said with a laugh. “I knew you could!”
“I can, I can!” the boy said excitedly, his grin growing wider. The woman laughed again.
“Oh, Autor. You have such a wonderful smile! And you’re so talented as well…I’m sure you’re going to make people very happy during your life.”
Mom…
“You really think so, Mommy?”
“I know so!” She gently combed her fingers through his hair, looking into his eyes with a smile. “Make people happy for me, won’t you?”
“I will! And you should make people happy, too!”
“I promise to if you promise to.”
“I promise!”

I forgot I promised that…have I kept my promise? …Do I make people happy?
…Mom…I…
“I love you, Autor.”
I love you, too.

There was another jolt. He was still in his living room, still standing next to the piano, but now the colors returned to their full depth. Autor had to blink to keep his eyes from tearing up—the colors felt too garish and bright compared to the memory just moments before. He glanced up at the clock to reassure himself that the story was once again moving forward as it should. It was.

He took a shaky breath. Being dragged backwards through the story at such a brisk pace had taken more of a toll on him than he had thought.
Another shaky breath. Don’t be silly, he scolded himself. All you did was walk backwards a little. You didn’t run a marathon.

He straightened, adjusting his glasses and taking another breath, this one deeper and stronger. He should be getting back to Drosselmeyer’s grave.