Heart Unbroken

Prince Siegfried had no time to be surprised when his last option but one succeeded.

The thought of invoking the last uncertain magic, of piercing his own heart to release the feelings that would then be free to fight on their own, had been in the back of his mind ever since his first sight of the Raven that had ravaged his kingdom. But there was always the doubt – he might simply die, as any ordinary man must, and then everything that was left would be truly lost to the hideous greed of the enemy. Duty forbade it, yet. He did not permit himself to think of Princess Tutu; those reflections were for the peace before the Raven, or the peace he might find after, although the hermit whose words his hopes hung upon seemed to think that only that final shattering would call her ....

The Prince was fighting on instinct, without leisure for thought. The Raven was trying to blast his enemy from the air, and was fully extending his wings for a final time, and the Prince had begun to move as soon as he saw that wing and claw would both let him through. He was nearly there – he had at last been able to break through – there was the beating heart, and it burst at the thrust of the sword –

A terrible light, and a noise that drove him away from his dying foe, and the fall.

Then blackness, and silence.

The Prince tried to move. He could move. He was free – somewhere. Where? After such a battle, in the sight of his kingdom, why was he not on the open ground he remembered from the battlefield, or at least in a bed in a castle or house or even a peasant's hut? He picked himself up from the floor of … a library? A study or office, more likely. He sheathed his sword and took off the mask – where had the rest of his armor gone? – he turned around, and saw –

His head swam, so he leaned against the wall. He was still standing, and that wasn't such a good idea. As the Prince sank to the floor he chided himself that, with all the death he had seen over the past days, one more corpse should not make him react this way. This was different, though. This old man had been murdered, not killed in battle. His hands had been severed as he sat at his desk, and blood ran freely, soaking into the papers and books and dripping onto the floor.  Even as he watched it was beginning to clot and dry.

It wasn't so much the death, realized the Prince; it was the whole macabre scene, and – why was he here at all?

Where was here? There were things that looked very different from what he knew. That lamp, for instance. The light was steadier than even the finest candle, and the shape was so different. The noises from the window were those of people going about their business, calls and greetings, with a discordant note of cheer. The murdered man's clothes –

Murder. If he wasn't in his own realm, he was in a closed room with a man who had just been murdered. He had nothing to prove who he was except his family's sword and the mask he'd worn into battle. He was – well, that was a mercy, at least; he wasn't covered in the Raven's blood (why on Earth not?) and hadn't stepped in any of the dead victim's. He edged closer, and looked at the body.

The head had fallen forward. The severed right hand still gripped a quill, the white feather now red- spattered. There were, in fact, droplets of blood spattered all over the desk, not so much on the man's outlandish sleeves behind the wrists. His arms had been held down? How many people had done this? Two slices in the disordered, stained papers. Axe blows, of course. They looked wrong for a sword.

Then words caught his eyes. Prinz und Rabe. The few lines he could make out sounded very familiar indeed. Had he been written here, to this strange world? But if he could have survived splitting his heart asunder, why could he not be made to cross worlds with a wizard's words?

There was a window. He sidled closer, peering out from behind the curtain. His first emotion was relief – there was a town out there, half- timber and plaster, a church bell- tower and familiar things filling a lighted street at sunset. But the people wore the dullest, most uncomfortable- looking fashions.

He noted that no adult wore a weapon, at least not in view. In fact, there didn't seem to be any men- at- arms at all. He'd need to find a place to hide his sword and mask, and even his crown. And he needed to hide himself until he knew what to do, and he had to do it now.

For the second time, he felt faint. A whole new world to deal with, and he was so tired. How was he to return to his own kingdom? Well, for that he'd need to know how he came into this place, for certain. He looked at the dead man. Those clothes looked just as flamboyant as his own doublet and hose, compared to the folk in the street outside. Maybe there was a cloak in that closet. He went over quietly, avoiding the drying blood; and amongst the colorful things, there was a long plain brown robe with a hood. Should he hide his things here? No. He couldn't come back here. This place would be turned upside down when the murder was discovered. He'd been here, what, perhaps ten minutes? High time to go. One more thing though. Once more he leaned over the desk and padded around the room, looking until he found a few opened envelopes in the trash can. D. D. Drosselmeyer. In the changing light, the name could still be made out on a newish book's spine as well. A writer, as if any proof were needed.

So this man had been D. D. Drosselmeyer. Prince Siegfried tucked his mask under his doublet, belted his sword so that it hung across his back, and as an afterthought took a folio book – another by Drosselmeyer –  from a pile by the far wall, rather than a shelf; it might help disguise the sword poking  a lump in the cloak. Then he listened. No sound had come from the whole house since he'd woken. But then, a cheering from the street brought him to the window once again. People were hurrying in one direction, toward a light that could only be a large fire, and now he noted other costumes, even some youngsters of his own age in proper doublets and hose. A frolic of some sort? He opened the door of the room and found himself in a hallway, with a door that would take him out into the street. He opened it a crack, then boldly strode out into the now- dark street in his cloak and hood, pulling the door shut behind him: too risky to try to scout around the rest of the house. He noticed that the revelers who saw him at the door avoided him. No greetings for the wizard, then; just as well. But he'd have to leave the cloak behind somewhere, unobserved, especially considering the reaction of one middle- aged couple who strode past him. They looked at him sidelong without trying to see under the deep hood, stuck their noses in the air and commented to each other on the typical tastelessness of the man.

He realized that every moment enmeshed him more deeply into the mystery. Did a brown robe and hood, like nothing so much as a respectable monk's habit in his own land, mean something else here? Not only had he been alone with the victim of a murder, he had taken things from the room and now he had been mistaken for Drosselmeyer himself! A dozen people or more might well testify that they had seen the dead man leave his house, when the body was slumped over that desk.

He had to find that hiding- place. And then, even before trying to find a wizard to send him back home, he had to find out about justice in this town. He knew of, and had seen, too many places where the swift execution of an obvious suspect was mistaken for truth.

He almost stopped at that thought, suddenly dreading what the fire might portend; but then he was in the market square itself and the fire was only a fire, no stake in the center.

He'd been too deep in thought to pay much heed to the music. The end of the piece startled him. Someone, not with the high piercing tones of a town crier, but a booming voice of a man who turned out to be the mayor, called for quiet. His speech was short and to the point: Welcome to the Fire Festival! Thanks to the Committee for their hard work on this year's outstanding setting, and as always to the Gold Crown Academy for the Arts, the Opera Company and the Philharmonic Society, and all the individuals and bands who would perform, for the excellent music! There was food and drink, the dancing would continue until the Gold Crown Academy Ballet students opened the dance competition for – the Golden Apple! The crowd cheered as he held aloft the prize. Well, it did look like gold, at least.

So. This place was called Gold Crown. The warm air and the late sunset, according to the clock on the church tower, suggested early summer, perhaps a solstice fete. There was an opera company and an orchestra, and... an Academy. An arts school.

That was a temptation. If he was stuck here, perhaps he could enroll, and dance again... no, he couldn't think of that yet. How to get home to his devastated kingdom, to the thousands of souls who needed their Prince, how to set the law straight on his presence in Drosselmeyer's room, those took precedence over all but his immediate survival.

Church. That was an idea. He had no intention of leaving his sword on the altar, as a man might when sick of war and grateful to return alive; that sword was the protection of his kingdom, and in a way its property. He could free it – no, not until he knew that swans were as sacred here as at home. The tower? There might be people there even now, taking in the view of the celebration. The front steps were certainly crowded with spectators, but there was a door into the transept.

No one was inside at the moment. There were a few doors here and there: to the balconies, or a robing room or study or broom closet. The one he sought was along a side aisle, barred tonight by a rope which he ignored. He appropriated one of the candles from a stand, set the book down by a pillar and opened the door.

Stairs wound down to the crypt. He wrapped crown, sword and mask in the cloak and cast about. In a corner, the lid to a sarcophagus was askew, and a large piece was missing from one corner; he steeled himself and looked, but it was empty. Another mystery. He laid the bundle inside and left, without looking back. He felt committed now, as he had not before. His future here, in this unfamiliar, unworldly town, was to be a different sort of battle.

One thing he had to face, immediately. He decided that he must deal with the Law, and take the consequences.

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Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and all related characters and elements are the property, copyright and trademark of HAL– GANSIS/TUTU and Ikukoh Itoh and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.

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And so, the idea of the Prince retaining his heart immediately shifts into what feels like the first chapter of a murder mystery ….

The Story has still broken free here, but with the death of the Raven documented just before Drosselmeyer is killed, its effects might be more subtle. What tragedy Drosselmeyer had in mind for the Prince upon the death of his enemy, I don't know – yet; but if D. is hanging around, his hero is in an unexpectedly precarious position with all sorts of hairy possibilities. I don't have the time to follow up with this at the moment, but that might just mean that it gets to ferment for a while. Certainly, it wouldn't skip all the generations that Princess Tutu did, and the cast would be those alive at the time of Drosselmeyer's death – the several- times- great- grandparents of Charon, Fakir, Rue, Autor, et al.

But that's all speculation. I just hope you enjoy what's here.