But another dancer watched. Rue, the haughty, raven-haired prima of the academy, was secretly the raven’s daughter, raised to be Mytho’s destroyer. And Fakir, Mytho’s fierce, sword-wielding protector, distrusted Ahiru. He knew that stories have a cost. If Tutu completed her tale, she might vanish forever—or worse, become a speck of light in an old man’s forgotten narrative.
Ahiru never believed she could be that princess. She was too clumsy, too timid. But when her friend—a cold, beautiful boy named Mytho, who was the heartless prince himself—began to wither, Ahiru made a choice. A pendant around her neck glowed, and in a swirl of feathers and light, she transformed into Princess Tutu. Princess Tutu
And Fakir closed his book, smiling softly at Ahiru. “That was a good story,” he said. But another dancer watched
But Fakir was writing furiously, his quill scratching against the page: And so the duck, who danced for love without reward, became a girl again. Not because the story demanded it, but because love is not a role—it is a choice. He knew that stories have a cost
Then, turning to the ghost of Drosselmeyer, who cackled from his clockwork tower, Tutu bowed. “A story isn’t real until someone believes in a different ending.”
Instead of returning the last shard—the shard of princely devotion that would bind him to her—she gave it to Rue. “You love him too,” Tutu said. “And he can choose his own heart.”
The story went like this: a brave prince shattered his own heart to seal away an evil raven, scattering the pieces across the town. Without his heart, the prince became a ghostly figure, destined to wander forever. To save him, Princess Tutu would need to gather the shards—each one hidden within a suffering soul—and return them with a pure, selfless dance.
But another dancer watched. Rue, the haughty, raven-haired prima of the academy, was secretly the raven’s daughter, raised to be Mytho’s destroyer. And Fakir, Mytho’s fierce, sword-wielding protector, distrusted Ahiru. He knew that stories have a cost. If Tutu completed her tale, she might vanish forever—or worse, become a speck of light in an old man’s forgotten narrative.
Ahiru never believed she could be that princess. She was too clumsy, too timid. But when her friend—a cold, beautiful boy named Mytho, who was the heartless prince himself—began to wither, Ahiru made a choice. A pendant around her neck glowed, and in a swirl of feathers and light, she transformed into Princess Tutu.
And Fakir closed his book, smiling softly at Ahiru. “That was a good story,” he said.
But Fakir was writing furiously, his quill scratching against the page: And so the duck, who danced for love without reward, became a girl again. Not because the story demanded it, but because love is not a role—it is a choice.
Then, turning to the ghost of Drosselmeyer, who cackled from his clockwork tower, Tutu bowed. “A story isn’t real until someone believes in a different ending.”
Instead of returning the last shard—the shard of princely devotion that would bind him to her—she gave it to Rue. “You love him too,” Tutu said. “And he can choose his own heart.”
The story went like this: a brave prince shattered his own heart to seal away an evil raven, scattering the pieces across the town. Without his heart, the prince became a ghostly figure, destined to wander forever. To save him, Princess Tutu would need to gather the shards—each one hidden within a suffering soul—and return them with a pure, selfless dance.