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31_days2007-06-10 07:49 pm
haleysings.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-06-10 07:49 pm
[June 10, 2007] [Princess Tutu] The Forgotten Skill
Title: The Forgotten Skill
Day/Theme: June 10: I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled?
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Uhrmacher, Autor
Rating: G
However, the Nightingale flew too far and flew beyond even the borders of the story, and then…
“Wait a moment,” Uhrmacher said, placing a hand on the boy’s arm. “Let me see that.”
Autor looked up at his father with a worried frown. “What? What is it?”
The tall man read over the sentence he had just written, then shook his head. “No, that’s not right.”
The boy squinted in the low light at what he had just written. It wasn’t right? What was wrong with it? His father had told him to write a story about his mother, whatever words came to mind, and that’s what he was doing. His mother sang like the nightingale in the storybook. As soon as he thought about that, the idea for the story came to him. “What did I do wrong?”
“It’s just…not possible, Autor. That’s not right. You’ll have to start over.”
“But why? I don’t understand. What’s wrong with it?”
“She…she can’t leave the story. Nobody can.”
“But it’s a fairytale. People do odd things all the time in fairytales.”
His father let out a frustrated, tired sigh as Autor fidgeted nervously in his seat. He had been sighing like that ever since Mom had disappeared. It had been a week now, and while Autor didn’t know as much as he liked to think he did, he knew that someone missing for a week that was a bad thing.
“Autor, it’s difficult to explain. I just need you to be able to…tap into whatever will help you write the best story you can.”
“But I am doing the best I can!”
“No, Autor. I know you can do better. You can do much better. I know you can.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, yes you can.”
“B-but…but I’ve never written any stories before.”
“AUTOR!” Uhrmacher whirled around, his eyes shining strangely in the lantern’s light as he grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “It doesn’t matter! Nothing matters! I KNOW you can do this, but you need to stop playing around, pick up the pen and WRITE!”
“N-No, I—“
“I SAID, WRITE!”
Autor froze, his eyes wide. His father rarely spoke like that to anyone, even when he was angry. He always spoke softly. He never spoke like this.
The boy clung onto the desk with his hand and sniffed. Did he do something wrong? Was that why she…?
“Don’t cry,” Uhrmacher said, quieter this time but with an angry growl still present in his voice. The boy whimpered and tried to swallow a sob, bowing his head.
“Autor, I said don’t cry.”
Autor shook his head and grasped the desk more firmly, trying to understand it all. He had to write, and he had to write what came into his head, but she couldn’t leave the story…
I don’t know how to! Autor sobbed again. Whatever this was, it was important. He had to be able to do it, but…
Uhrmacher let go of him and began to pace back and forth. For a while, the only sound in the room was the man’s agitated footsteps, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the boy’s muffled sobs. The candles in the room flickered every time the man walked past, sending the shadows dancing in every direction.
After a moment, he let out another sigh and leaned against the wall, pulling out his pocket watch and opening it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to it.
Autor rubbed his eyes. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “for making you cry. I shouldn’t have.”
“I-It’s okay,” Autor responded with another sniff. “I’ll start to write again.”
“Autor, wait…before you do…” Uhrmacher closed the watch and put it back in his pocket, walking back over to his son and getting down on his knees in front of the chair. “Listen. I have something to tell you. Something that happened when I was about your age. Will you listen?”
The boy nodded his head vigorously, his wavy hair bouncing up and down as he did so. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Uhrmacher’s lips, and he began his story.
“A long time ago, when I was still just a little boy, a lot of crows came to town. There were hundreds of them, if not thousands. They ate the crops of the farmers, so we didn’t have much food, and they began to attack the townspeople.
“My parents warned me to stay indoors so that I wouldn’t be attacked, but a friend of mine had a new kitten I wanted to see, so I snuck out of the house one day when my mother was cooking a meal. At first I didn’t see any crows, so I thought I was fine, but they unexpectedly appeared out of nowhere and attacked me. I tried to run away but they were too fast for me, and they began to peck and claw at me. I probably would have died but…suddenly…they stopped.”
Uhrmacher took a deep breath, glancing over at the pen and paper sitting on the desk. “I had been badly hurt, and I think I might have blacked out, because the next thing I remember I woke up in a stranger’s home. I got up out of the bed and looked around. The room was a lot like this study—shelves full of books of different sizes, a map hanging up on one side of the wall, and a desk with a quill and sheets of paper sitting on top of it. I looked on the desk, and do you know what was on there?”
Autor shook his head, matching his father’s serious expression.
“A story. A story about a boy that had been attacked by crows, but he was saved because a writer sent the crows away. And it ended ‘when the boy woke up, he discovered that all of his wounds had been taken away, as if they never existed.’ And I looked, and the story was right. I wasn’t hurt at all.”
Autor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Not at all?”
”Not a single scratch. I knew I had been hurt, because there was a blood stain on my shirt, but any wounds I had were gone.
“A man came in then, and I asked him if he was the one that wrote the story. He said he was, and I begged him to teach me how he did it. At first he refused and told me he couldn’t, but I wouldn’t stop asking. And so he said to me this: ‘If you want to learn how to write magical stories, you have to learn about a man named Drosselmeyer.’”
“The man that wrote The Prince and the Raven?”
Uhrmacher nodded. “That’s right.”
“So…so did you learn how to write magical stories?”
“No, Autor. I…circumstances make me unable to, at least at the moment. But you…you can write them.”
”I can?”
“Yes. I’m sure you can. You’re smart, and imaginative, and…you have Drosselmeyer’s blood.”
“His what?”
“His blood. You’re related to him, Autor. Just like so many of our family members. And if you are, then you’re able to write those stories.”
“So…so if I write a story about mom coming back…she will?”
Uhrmacher paused for a moment, looking down at the floor as he nodded. “I think so. As long as we work hard enough and do everything the right way…”
“I’ll work hard! I’ll work really hard!”
“It’s okay if you can’t sometimes.”
“I want to!” Autor said, his hazel eyes gleaming with excitement. “I want to write a story just like Drosselmeyer and that man did!”
Uhrmacher smiled softly, then stood up. “You’re a good boy, Autor. Now we just need to find what we’re doing wrong. …Can you think of anything?”
“Nuh-uh.”
Uhrmacher let out another sigh, putting his hands in his pockets and studying the floor. “…He gave me some tea, when he saved me. It seemed like he drank a lot of it…how about tea? Will that help?”
“I like tea.”
“Hm…alright. Let’s get you some tea, then. And…different ink. This ink is cheaply made, so…maybe if we use better ink…”
**************
“Maybe I’m still using the wrong ink,” Autor muttered to himself. He took another sip of tea and frowned down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. On his right was his frog-shaped inkwell and a quill. On his left was an old piece of paper with a short story written on it, faded with age and crease from having been folded. Autor glanced over the story again. It was no masterpiece. It was rather obvious it had been written by a seven year old. He sighed and got up to pace.
This is ridiculous, he told himself. It’s been ten years since I wrote that. I should be much better now, particularly with the amount of research I’ve done, but… he stopped in the middle of the floor. “But when it comes time to write…I can’t,” he admitted to the empty room. The words tasted bitter, even when there was no one else to hear it.
He considered his situation for a moment. He had too many questions, and not enough answers. Obviously, his mother was unwilling to tell him anything, even if she knew. There was only one person that could give him the information he needed…
Although he wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming to that person and asking for help, he didn’t really have much of a choice. He adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
This time, he would be the student.
Day/Theme: June 10: I am come to send fire on the earth; and what will I, if it be already kindled?
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Uhrmacher, Autor
Rating: G
However, the Nightingale flew too far and flew beyond even the borders of the story, and then…
“Wait a moment,” Uhrmacher said, placing a hand on the boy’s arm. “Let me see that.”
Autor looked up at his father with a worried frown. “What? What is it?”
The tall man read over the sentence he had just written, then shook his head. “No, that’s not right.”
The boy squinted in the low light at what he had just written. It wasn’t right? What was wrong with it? His father had told him to write a story about his mother, whatever words came to mind, and that’s what he was doing. His mother sang like the nightingale in the storybook. As soon as he thought about that, the idea for the story came to him. “What did I do wrong?”
“It’s just…not possible, Autor. That’s not right. You’ll have to start over.”
“But why? I don’t understand. What’s wrong with it?”
“She…she can’t leave the story. Nobody can.”
“But it’s a fairytale. People do odd things all the time in fairytales.”
His father let out a frustrated, tired sigh as Autor fidgeted nervously in his seat. He had been sighing like that ever since Mom had disappeared. It had been a week now, and while Autor didn’t know as much as he liked to think he did, he knew that someone missing for a week that was a bad thing.
“Autor, it’s difficult to explain. I just need you to be able to…tap into whatever will help you write the best story you can.”
“But I am doing the best I can!”
“No, Autor. I know you can do better. You can do much better. I know you can.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, yes you can.”
“B-but…but I’ve never written any stories before.”
“AUTOR!” Uhrmacher whirled around, his eyes shining strangely in the lantern’s light as he grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “It doesn’t matter! Nothing matters! I KNOW you can do this, but you need to stop playing around, pick up the pen and WRITE!”
“N-No, I—“
“I SAID, WRITE!”
Autor froze, his eyes wide. His father rarely spoke like that to anyone, even when he was angry. He always spoke softly. He never spoke like this.
The boy clung onto the desk with his hand and sniffed. Did he do something wrong? Was that why she…?
“Don’t cry,” Uhrmacher said, quieter this time but with an angry growl still present in his voice. The boy whimpered and tried to swallow a sob, bowing his head.
“Autor, I said don’t cry.”
Autor shook his head and grasped the desk more firmly, trying to understand it all. He had to write, and he had to write what came into his head, but she couldn’t leave the story…
I don’t know how to! Autor sobbed again. Whatever this was, it was important. He had to be able to do it, but…
Uhrmacher let go of him and began to pace back and forth. For a while, the only sound in the room was the man’s agitated footsteps, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the boy’s muffled sobs. The candles in the room flickered every time the man walked past, sending the shadows dancing in every direction.
After a moment, he let out another sigh and leaned against the wall, pulling out his pocket watch and opening it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to it.
Autor rubbed his eyes. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “for making you cry. I shouldn’t have.”
“I-It’s okay,” Autor responded with another sniff. “I’ll start to write again.”
“Autor, wait…before you do…” Uhrmacher closed the watch and put it back in his pocket, walking back over to his son and getting down on his knees in front of the chair. “Listen. I have something to tell you. Something that happened when I was about your age. Will you listen?”
The boy nodded his head vigorously, his wavy hair bouncing up and down as he did so. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Uhrmacher’s lips, and he began his story.
“A long time ago, when I was still just a little boy, a lot of crows came to town. There were hundreds of them, if not thousands. They ate the crops of the farmers, so we didn’t have much food, and they began to attack the townspeople.
“My parents warned me to stay indoors so that I wouldn’t be attacked, but a friend of mine had a new kitten I wanted to see, so I snuck out of the house one day when my mother was cooking a meal. At first I didn’t see any crows, so I thought I was fine, but they unexpectedly appeared out of nowhere and attacked me. I tried to run away but they were too fast for me, and they began to peck and claw at me. I probably would have died but…suddenly…they stopped.”
Uhrmacher took a deep breath, glancing over at the pen and paper sitting on the desk. “I had been badly hurt, and I think I might have blacked out, because the next thing I remember I woke up in a stranger’s home. I got up out of the bed and looked around. The room was a lot like this study—shelves full of books of different sizes, a map hanging up on one side of the wall, and a desk with a quill and sheets of paper sitting on top of it. I looked on the desk, and do you know what was on there?”
Autor shook his head, matching his father’s serious expression.
“A story. A story about a boy that had been attacked by crows, but he was saved because a writer sent the crows away. And it ended ‘when the boy woke up, he discovered that all of his wounds had been taken away, as if they never existed.’ And I looked, and the story was right. I wasn’t hurt at all.”
Autor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Not at all?”
”Not a single scratch. I knew I had been hurt, because there was a blood stain on my shirt, but any wounds I had were gone.
“A man came in then, and I asked him if he was the one that wrote the story. He said he was, and I begged him to teach me how he did it. At first he refused and told me he couldn’t, but I wouldn’t stop asking. And so he said to me this: ‘If you want to learn how to write magical stories, you have to learn about a man named Drosselmeyer.’”
“The man that wrote The Prince and the Raven?”
Uhrmacher nodded. “That’s right.”
“So…so did you learn how to write magical stories?”
“No, Autor. I…circumstances make me unable to, at least at the moment. But you…you can write them.”
”I can?”
“Yes. I’m sure you can. You’re smart, and imaginative, and…you have Drosselmeyer’s blood.”
“His what?”
“His blood. You’re related to him, Autor. Just like so many of our family members. And if you are, then you’re able to write those stories.”
“So…so if I write a story about mom coming back…she will?”
Uhrmacher paused for a moment, looking down at the floor as he nodded. “I think so. As long as we work hard enough and do everything the right way…”
“I’ll work hard! I’ll work really hard!”
“It’s okay if you can’t sometimes.”
“I want to!” Autor said, his hazel eyes gleaming with excitement. “I want to write a story just like Drosselmeyer and that man did!”
Uhrmacher smiled softly, then stood up. “You’re a good boy, Autor. Now we just need to find what we’re doing wrong. …Can you think of anything?”
“Nuh-uh.”
Uhrmacher let out another sigh, putting his hands in his pockets and studying the floor. “…He gave me some tea, when he saved me. It seemed like he drank a lot of it…how about tea? Will that help?”
“I like tea.”
“Hm…alright. Let’s get you some tea, then. And…different ink. This ink is cheaply made, so…maybe if we use better ink…”
**************
“Maybe I’m still using the wrong ink,” Autor muttered to himself. He took another sip of tea and frowned down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. On his right was his frog-shaped inkwell and a quill. On his left was an old piece of paper with a short story written on it, faded with age and crease from having been folded. Autor glanced over the story again. It was no masterpiece. It was rather obvious it had been written by a seven year old. He sighed and got up to pace.
This is ridiculous, he told himself. It’s been ten years since I wrote that. I should be much better now, particularly with the amount of research I’ve done, but… he stopped in the middle of the floor. “But when it comes time to write…I can’t,” he admitted to the empty room. The words tasted bitter, even when there was no one else to hear it.
He considered his situation for a moment. He had too many questions, and not enough answers. Obviously, his mother was unwilling to tell him anything, even if she knew. There was only one person that could give him the information he needed…
Although he wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming to that person and asking for help, he didn’t really have much of a choice. He adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
This time, he would be the student.