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31_days2007-05-27 10:57 pm
haleysings.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-05-27 10:57 pm
[May 27, 2007] [Princess Tutu] Visitation
Title: Visitation
Day/Theme: May 27: speaking of Cao Cao [the Chinese equivalent of "speak of the devil..."]
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor, Drosselmeyer
Rating: G
“It’s just not fair!”
It was a petulant remark that would’ve sounded better coming out of the mouth of a five-year-old than it did coming out of Autor’s mouth. The teen threw down the quill he was holding and rubbed his temples. Once again, he sat in front of a blank sheet of paper, picked up a quill, and found himself completely frozen and unable to write. While Fakir—that half-baked descendant—had somehow managed to not only write a story, but somehow defeated a story of Drosselmeyer’s. How was it that someone who had barely even remembered his powers been able to do such a feat, when Autor had been training and researching his entire life and had never, ever been able to write a story that came true?
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. All he needed were words. That was all. But the only words that came to him were the words of others, jumbled together in a bizarre stream—‘To be or not to be’ quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore! – All in the golden afternoon.’
He knew what he wanted to write about—he saw his mothers face in his mind, although not as clearly as he would have liked. Time had made the memories fade into a dream-like condition.
Perhaps that was it. He just needed to refresh his memory a little. Getting up from the wobbly desk (and mentally cursing Drosselmeyer for having a desk that wobbled in the first place) he walked out of the sacred study and into the living room. He knew he had a painting of her somewhere, in a pocket watch…where did he put it?
Ah, that’s right. It was in his father’s old bedroom, in a box in the closet. Autor turned to walk towards the bedroom…
And came face-to-face with an old man festooned in a plumed hat and silk cape. “Searching for your muse, my boy?” the man trilled, a wide grin on his face.
Autor jumped back several feet, so filled with emotion that he couldn’t think clearly. This wasn’t—it couldn’t be—no, no, this can’t—
“No, you are correct. It is I, Drosselmeyer!” The man chuckled softly, obviously quite amused with the boy’s reaction.
“But…but you’re…”
“Dead? Yes. Quite right. Of course, being dead isn’t quite the end, not at all.”
“I…I just…how? I know Fakir said he saw you, but…”
“You thought he was crazy?”
“I…I don’t know. I didn’t know what to think. His story sounded plausible, but…”
“But?”
Autor straightened, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking. “I don’t understand why you came to him, and never came to me.”
Drosselmeyer threw back his head as he burst out in a hearty guffaw. “And why should I have come to you?”
Doing his best not to compare the man to Rue, Autor pressed on. “I have lived nearly my whole life trying to be a proper descendant of yours! I’ve read all your works more times than I can count, I’ve done copious amounts of study and research on your powers and bloodline, I’ve reconstructed your study and-and I even have the same tea set as you!”
The old, dead writer raised an eyebrow stepping towards Autor and slowly beginning to circle around him. “Oh? Quite an impressive amount of work. And your writing?”
“M-My writing?”
“Yes, dear boy, your writing. What have you accomplished? How have you used the powers given to you by my bloodline? What stories have you spun into reality?”
Autor felt as though a noose was closing around his neck. “I…I’m still…”
“You are unable to.”
“I’m not unable! I just need a little more—“
“What? Tea? Blue and black ink in a 7-to-3 ratio?”
“Time!” Autor said desperately. “Study! Inspiration!”
Drosselmeyer stopped in front of Autor and looked him straight in his eyes. “Inspiration? Like this?” As if by magic, a silver pocket watch suddenly appeared in Drosselmeyer’s hands. He opened it and held it out by the chain so Autor could see the minature portrait carefully placed in the inside of the door—the portrait of his mother.
Autor’s throat felt dry. He ahem’d and adjusted his glasses, doing his best to calm his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or frightened by this conversation. “I suppose you could consider my mother an inspiration.”
“A lovely woman,” Drosselmeyer said, turning to watch to admire the painting for a moment. There was a faint hint of malice in his voice. “So full of life, so independent…and quite the artist herself. A wonderful choice in a muse. My compliments to your father, he has a good eye.”
“Ah…thank you, Herr,” Autor said, doing his best not to fidget as the man’s eyes turned to him. How much of that was a true compliment?
“It’s a shame, however, that she is really the one to blame for your inability to write.”
“What? Why would my mother be the cause for my…difficulties in writing?”
“Why, the lessons she drilled into your head.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Drosselmeyer wagged his finger. “Telling you to be careful? Dragging you out to that boy’s funeral and telling you that ‘magic may cause people to die’? She instilled a sense of caution in you—and killed any talent you had in the process!”
“But…! But what she told me was the TRUTH!” Autor said, his voice raising in volume and pitch. “People CAN die with these powers! To say they don’t would be—“
“You misunderstand me. I am not saying that people don’t die. Of course they do! That’s the brilliance of it--anything can happen with the story-spinning powers! Any tragedy can be woven expertly, as long as you’re willing to let go and watch what happens.”
“But…but surely you’re not telling me to allow people to die!”
“Why not?”
Autor’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Why not allow people to die? Wouldn’t that be a dramatic addition to your story?” Drosselmeyer began to walk towards Autor, and Autor quickly stumbled backwards, a strange feeling of fear beginning to grow within him. “I…I don’t want people to die! That’s not what I want!”
“If you can’t learn to be irresponsible with your writing, you’ll never be able to do it.”
“No! That’s not true!”
“It is, Autor. Are you prepared to give up on your dreams because of what that woman told you? A woman that cared so little for you that she left you nearly a decade ago?”
“Don’t speak about her that way! She didn’t WANT to leave me!”
“Then where is she now? Where is she when you need her the most?”
Autor’s back hit the bookcase, causing some of the books contained in it to spill out to the floor. “I don’t know! But as soon as I can write a story, I’ll be able to find her!”
“Then you’ll have to learn to let go of the pointless lessons she taught you.”
“I don’t want to!”
“If you wish your mother to return, then you MUST.”
“NO!”
Autor woke up with a start, falling out of the chair he was sleeping in and hitting the floor with a thud. His heart was racing as if he had just run a mile. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep, shaky breath, doing his best to regain his composure.
It was a dream. Merely a dream. It was admittedly a rather vivid one, but it was a dream, regardless.
Autor stood up, using his chair to help him pull himself back up. The sight awaiting him made his eyes widen with horror—his inkwell had been knocked over and the ink was slowly streaming towards the blank pieces of paper. With a cry, he quickly righted the inkwell and grabbed the closest piece of cloth he could find, using it to wipe up the ink.
Of course, he now had a large ink stain on one of his best school jackets. He mournfully looked at the ruined piece of clothing—the second one he had lost to an ink stain. He narrowed his eyes, storming towards the door. If he washed it now, there was a chance he could save it.
He paused on the way out to look at the study before him. It was a perfect replica of Drosselmeyer’s study, down to the too-short leg in the desk that caused it to wobble.
Surely his dream was just that—a dream. Wasn’t it? Drosselmeyer would never say such things. He was a great man. Even Drosselmeyer would know where a line must be drawn.
Didn’t he?
Well, there was no use worrying about a silly dream. With a sigh, Autor turned and walked out the door.
Day/Theme: May 27: speaking of Cao Cao [the Chinese equivalent of "speak of the devil..."]
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor, Drosselmeyer
Rating: G
“It’s just not fair!”
It was a petulant remark that would’ve sounded better coming out of the mouth of a five-year-old than it did coming out of Autor’s mouth. The teen threw down the quill he was holding and rubbed his temples. Once again, he sat in front of a blank sheet of paper, picked up a quill, and found himself completely frozen and unable to write. While Fakir—that half-baked descendant—had somehow managed to not only write a story, but somehow defeated a story of Drosselmeyer’s. How was it that someone who had barely even remembered his powers been able to do such a feat, when Autor had been training and researching his entire life and had never, ever been able to write a story that came true?
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. All he needed were words. That was all. But the only words that came to him were the words of others, jumbled together in a bizarre stream—‘To be or not to be’ quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore! – All in the golden afternoon.’
He knew what he wanted to write about—he saw his mothers face in his mind, although not as clearly as he would have liked. Time had made the memories fade into a dream-like condition.
Perhaps that was it. He just needed to refresh his memory a little. Getting up from the wobbly desk (and mentally cursing Drosselmeyer for having a desk that wobbled in the first place) he walked out of the sacred study and into the living room. He knew he had a painting of her somewhere, in a pocket watch…where did he put it?
Ah, that’s right. It was in his father’s old bedroom, in a box in the closet. Autor turned to walk towards the bedroom…
And came face-to-face with an old man festooned in a plumed hat and silk cape. “Searching for your muse, my boy?” the man trilled, a wide grin on his face.
Autor jumped back several feet, so filled with emotion that he couldn’t think clearly. This wasn’t—it couldn’t be—no, no, this can’t—
“No, you are correct. It is I, Drosselmeyer!” The man chuckled softly, obviously quite amused with the boy’s reaction.
“But…but you’re…”
“Dead? Yes. Quite right. Of course, being dead isn’t quite the end, not at all.”
“I…I just…how? I know Fakir said he saw you, but…”
“You thought he was crazy?”
“I…I don’t know. I didn’t know what to think. His story sounded plausible, but…”
“But?”
Autor straightened, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking. “I don’t understand why you came to him, and never came to me.”
Drosselmeyer threw back his head as he burst out in a hearty guffaw. “And why should I have come to you?”
Doing his best not to compare the man to Rue, Autor pressed on. “I have lived nearly my whole life trying to be a proper descendant of yours! I’ve read all your works more times than I can count, I’ve done copious amounts of study and research on your powers and bloodline, I’ve reconstructed your study and-and I even have the same tea set as you!”
The old, dead writer raised an eyebrow stepping towards Autor and slowly beginning to circle around him. “Oh? Quite an impressive amount of work. And your writing?”
“M-My writing?”
“Yes, dear boy, your writing. What have you accomplished? How have you used the powers given to you by my bloodline? What stories have you spun into reality?”
Autor felt as though a noose was closing around his neck. “I…I’m still…”
“You are unable to.”
“I’m not unable! I just need a little more—“
“What? Tea? Blue and black ink in a 7-to-3 ratio?”
“Time!” Autor said desperately. “Study! Inspiration!”
Drosselmeyer stopped in front of Autor and looked him straight in his eyes. “Inspiration? Like this?” As if by magic, a silver pocket watch suddenly appeared in Drosselmeyer’s hands. He opened it and held it out by the chain so Autor could see the minature portrait carefully placed in the inside of the door—the portrait of his mother.
Autor’s throat felt dry. He ahem’d and adjusted his glasses, doing his best to calm his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or frightened by this conversation. “I suppose you could consider my mother an inspiration.”
“A lovely woman,” Drosselmeyer said, turning to watch to admire the painting for a moment. There was a faint hint of malice in his voice. “So full of life, so independent…and quite the artist herself. A wonderful choice in a muse. My compliments to your father, he has a good eye.”
“Ah…thank you, Herr,” Autor said, doing his best not to fidget as the man’s eyes turned to him. How much of that was a true compliment?
“It’s a shame, however, that she is really the one to blame for your inability to write.”
“What? Why would my mother be the cause for my…difficulties in writing?”
“Why, the lessons she drilled into your head.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Drosselmeyer wagged his finger. “Telling you to be careful? Dragging you out to that boy’s funeral and telling you that ‘magic may cause people to die’? She instilled a sense of caution in you—and killed any talent you had in the process!”
“But…! But what she told me was the TRUTH!” Autor said, his voice raising in volume and pitch. “People CAN die with these powers! To say they don’t would be—“
“You misunderstand me. I am not saying that people don’t die. Of course they do! That’s the brilliance of it--anything can happen with the story-spinning powers! Any tragedy can be woven expertly, as long as you’re willing to let go and watch what happens.”
“But…but surely you’re not telling me to allow people to die!”
“Why not?”
Autor’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Why not allow people to die? Wouldn’t that be a dramatic addition to your story?” Drosselmeyer began to walk towards Autor, and Autor quickly stumbled backwards, a strange feeling of fear beginning to grow within him. “I…I don’t want people to die! That’s not what I want!”
“If you can’t learn to be irresponsible with your writing, you’ll never be able to do it.”
“No! That’s not true!”
“It is, Autor. Are you prepared to give up on your dreams because of what that woman told you? A woman that cared so little for you that she left you nearly a decade ago?”
“Don’t speak about her that way! She didn’t WANT to leave me!”
“Then where is she now? Where is she when you need her the most?”
Autor’s back hit the bookcase, causing some of the books contained in it to spill out to the floor. “I don’t know! But as soon as I can write a story, I’ll be able to find her!”
“Then you’ll have to learn to let go of the pointless lessons she taught you.”
“I don’t want to!”
“If you wish your mother to return, then you MUST.”
“NO!”
Autor woke up with a start, falling out of the chair he was sleeping in and hitting the floor with a thud. His heart was racing as if he had just run a mile. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep, shaky breath, doing his best to regain his composure.
It was a dream. Merely a dream. It was admittedly a rather vivid one, but it was a dream, regardless.
Autor stood up, using his chair to help him pull himself back up. The sight awaiting him made his eyes widen with horror—his inkwell had been knocked over and the ink was slowly streaming towards the blank pieces of paper. With a cry, he quickly righted the inkwell and grabbed the closest piece of cloth he could find, using it to wipe up the ink.
Of course, he now had a large ink stain on one of his best school jackets. He mournfully looked at the ruined piece of clothing—the second one he had lost to an ink stain. He narrowed his eyes, storming towards the door. If he washed it now, there was a chance he could save it.
He paused on the way out to look at the study before him. It was a perfect replica of Drosselmeyer’s study, down to the too-short leg in the desk that caused it to wobble.
Surely his dream was just that—a dream. Wasn’t it? Drosselmeyer would never say such things. He was a great man. Even Drosselmeyer would know where a line must be drawn.
Didn’t he?
Well, there was no use worrying about a silly dream. With a sigh, Autor turned and walked out the door.