Obligatory copyright disclaimer: "Princess Tutu" is the intellectual 
property of Ikuko Ito and HAL Film Maker. The characters and
setting are used without permission and not for profit.

Spoilers for end of series... and more to the point, this probably 
won't make much sense if you haven't seen the series ending.

Thanks to Raye Johnsen for her prereading and comments.



~ Interlude ~

Tonight - just for tonight - the ballroom is the only thing 
that exists in his world.

He threads his way through the maze of dancing couples, 
straining to spot her. They seldom have the chance to meet 
like this, so he must find her quickly. Every moment here is a 
treasure not to be wasted.

Outlandish costumes whirl and sway all around as he searches. 
An incongruously bulky creature suddenly pirouettes in front 
of him, its long snout whipping. Nearby, a small child dressed 
as an alligator grins jaggedly up at its parents as they 
dance.

"Are you looking for your partner?" someone breathes in his 
ear. He half-twists, catching a glimpse of an incredibly 
lifelike cat's mask as a couple brushes past. One furred leg 
stretches out gracefully, pointing arrowed claws back through 
the crowd; a slitted eye winks brightly.

He nods in thanks - once, he would not have done that - and as 
he steps forward the other dancers make way, parting like 
clouds in a soft summer breeze.

And there she stands, shining like the moon in a darkened sky. 
They face each other with silent grace, the princess in 
radiant white and her knight in devoted black.

"Shall we dance?" he asks, bowing as he offers his hand, and 
she takes it with a blush and a curtsey, as always. The 
musicians pause unseen, as if studying the moment, then strike 
up a stately waltz.

Nothing more is said for a time as they dance and their 
surroundings slip away, forgotten in their silent conversation. 
I missed you, his hands whisper as he holds her gently; we're 
together in this moment and that's all that matters, her back 
sings as she arches it against his fingers.

"Why don't you dance anymore?" she asks softly, the next time 
their heads come together. "You're so good, it's a shame."

"There's only one partner I want," he whispers back, "and she 
can't dance with me now."

"That's not fair," she counters.

"No." His voice is calm, but for a half-second the line of his 
arms is flawed with bitterness as he circles her waist. "It 
isn't." As he leads her, the next measure of their dance is 
shaded with regrets, haunted by might-have-beens.

I'm sorry.

I would sacrifice anything, everything, if it would help you.

She catches the familiar line of thought, and a slight shiver 
passes through her.

"You should stop this," she says, looking up at him anxiously. 
"They really might cut off your hands, if they found out."

"They won't."

"We could talk to them." She blushes faintly. "Um... you 
could, I mean."

"You know they wouldn't allow it."

"But..."

"They'll never know." A pause. "Do you really want me to 
stop?"

She pivots smoothly to face him, stretching her arms downward 
in a gesture of refusal. Then she offers him her hand, and 
they resume the flow of their dance. He still leads, but it's 
changed, somehow; she adds a movement here, quickens one 
there, deftly weaving an air of hope into their storytelling. 
It will be all right, she tells him.

They've danced this pattern so many times before, the same and 
yet different each time, and it still amazes him - that she, 
who gave all her hopes away to others, should still have some 
left to share with him.

That was how she changed him.

It's why he loves her.

The music swells and softens, fading away gently with a 
promise of times to come. They finish their dance as the last 
note dies, ending with him cradling her as they kneel 
together.

"You'll be at the lake tomorrow?" she asks quietly in his 
arms.

"I'll see you there," he promises. They rise and part hands 
reluctantly - a simple parting, no flourishes, no pumpkins, no 
glass slippers.

Then he bows, she curtseys and they exit to opposite sides 
with light, quick steps.

The curtain falls in darkness and the grinding of gears, and 
the story resumes.


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