Daphne in the wood (bromantic) wrote,
Daphne in the wood

  • Mood:
Title - Death of Romance
Fandom - Princess Tutu
Pairing - Mytho x Rue
Summary/Notes - post-series fic, vagueness.

The Death of Romance
By Timmesque

"It takes seconds for a heart to break. It takes more of a lifetime for one to truly mend."


She danced. Even now, that passion had not dulled for her as he took her outstretched hand and spun her, swanlike, graceful, like a faery on earth. They clapped, they cheered. They were loved, adored, the two magical beings from a forgotten corner. She smiled, she laughed.

She died a little inside.


The mark of a raven never lies. It may not be visible to all, but instinctively, one could pierce through and see the brooding malice beneath the shell. For Mytho, it's buried beneath all the glimmer and love of a prince. For Rue, it remains shoddily disguised by sequins and smiles. And her red eyes remain open. And seen.

People say many things, half intentional half blind, all painful. And the whispers behind her dressing room door never cease. Rue wonders if this was the price she paid for leaving, for defying the story to join in a reality that was bound to hurt her.

But her part in the story wasn't any less merciful and when she curls up in Mytho's arms in the night, it's easy to remember that she was the lucky one.

She then cries for the little duck she left behind.


Mytho was a prince. He loved all creatures, no matter who or what they were. It annoyed her that they gained his trust and wonder so easily while she struggled, bled, killed and broke people for it.

He always looks at her and says, "I'm here for you, Rue."

And she had to believe he wouldn't say that to anyone else.

But doubt is poisonous. It clouds the mind and heart too easily. She could kill him here, right now.

No one would have his smiles, no one would have his heart. He'll die here in the arms of the ballerina, the one with red shoes and red eyes. He'll be remembered as her prince, her lover, her glimmering heart that spun her away. He stirs and he beckons her to bed. She slips her hands around him, her head on her chest and thinks that the world should see him too, even just once, so that there will no longer be someone as unfortunate as her.

He could cure all pain. Except his own.


Mytho is not whole on some days. Sometimes, he is more human than prince and on other days, more raven than human. The wound aches and he cannot resist a cruel word or two. Then the guilt sinks in, deep and fathomless. Mytho is many things, perhaps too many things and he cannot forget any of them, all facets all encompassing like the dancing shadows of a fire.

Rue perceives, Rue comforts, Rue loves. And he drinks in her comfort to breathe, to live, to remember he is, and always to her, a noble prince.


And this is love, faint, clear, no more than the dust of angels in the night. They retire to their bed, quiet, tired little fairytale creatures in a world that is so new to them but so harsh and blunt. And as the dusk settles onto their bedtime like a companion, Rue runs her hands through Mytho's hair and thinks that this is still paradise found.


  • (no subject)

    I wonder if it's possible to make a life for yourself if you keep failing secondary education.

  • (no subject)

    I'm starting to wonder if good MCU Bucky players are like mythical creatures. Everyone thinks they exist, but they really don't.

  • (no subject)

    With talk of Civil War and Ant-Man, maybe the MCU will destroy itself in a blaze of glory. One can hope.

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