After twenty-four long episodes of painstakingly restoring the prince’s heart, and a cruel turn where the raven’s poison saw Mytho transforming into some kind of hateful, raven-crossed beast, it is ultimately not Ahiru’s efforts that see Mytho freed and restored. Instead, on the cusp of submitting to the raven entirely, it is Rue’s honest expression of love that frees him. Though Rue was told merely to trick Mytho, her feelings of obligation eventually shifted to affection, and ultimately honest love. Even our lies can contain partial truths, and a lie which is believed can change us until it becomes truth, for better or for worse. Rue’s curse is of the same kind that has tormented Mytho, the same lie that has hung grimly over all our characters, fostered by their creators – the lies we also know as “fiction.”

But as Rue has demonstrated, fiction can also be a glorious, empowering, transformative thing. We don’t only internalize unhappy, limiting lies through fiction; fictions can also inspire us to greatness we never believed possible. Rue was told to play the part of loving Mytho, but ultimately came to genuinely love him, discovering a humanity that allowed her to escape the role of “the raven’s daughter.” Fakir might have clung to the role of the knight because he had nothing else, but his commitment to that role ultimately became a source of real strength, inspiring not just his own courage, but the strength of his friends. And wishing so badly to become a real girl, Ahiru has become more human and sympathetic than anyone, the spirit she has always possessed merely needing a vehicle to express itself, a source of hope to inspire her strength.

Fiction can provide that hope, and inspire that strength. Fiction can take us to endless worlds, and teach us that across the infinite universe, empathy and courage survive. Fictions are a kind of faith, and I’m perpetually honored to carry that faith, celebrating how fictions can teach us new truths, inspire unknown strengths, broaden our perspective and empathy, and give us the hope and courage we need until believing long enough makes our hopes a reality. As Princess Tutu has regularly demonstrated, fiction can be a tool of deception, control, and imprisonment, but that is not the inherent nature of fiction – that is simply one expression of its formidable power. If you’re seeking the inspiring, redemptive power of fiction, merely look at Princess Tutu itself – a story which acknowledges all the hideous potential of fiction, but ultimately celebrates that through positive fictions and personal strength, we can all become the knights and heroes our fables promised.

Tutu’s penultimate episode begins with a familiar refrain, as our humble narrators tells us “Once upon a time, there was a man who died. The man had the power to make stories come true, and so his hands were cut off by the people, who were afraid of tragedies becoming reality. When the man died, the people heaved a great sigh of relief. However, when his hands were cut off, the man had been writing a story in his own blood. That was a story of the man himself, who would continue to spin stories even after death.”

This opening fable is a familiar one, not just within Princess Tutu, but also across human history. Humanity is well aware of the transformative, dangerous power fictions possess – and throughout history, “dangerous” tale-tellers have had their voices silenced, for fear of the societal disruption they might provoke, and future voices they might inspire. It is far easier to kill a person than to kill their idea, and in seeking eternity, Drosselmeyer turned himself into an idea, unreachable and unassailable. But though Drosselmeyer might have shaped this world, and though his presence might not be truly banishable, his creations have grown beyond his narrative’s grasp. He may have begun this story, but he will not finish it.

We open the episode proper with Drosselmeyer acknowledging his own limitations, tea half-raised and mouth agape in shock. “To think the Princess Kraehe would speak the words of true love that Tutu is supposed to say! Even though she was raised on raven’s blood and shouldn’t even know how to love…” While Princess Tutu’s first act ended on only a slight revision of Drosselmeyer’s narrative, with Ahiru’s choice to express her feelings through dance saving her from destruction, his characters have grown far more independent in the time since, demonstrating passions and strengths that shock their creator. And though Drosselmeyer remains certain his deck-stacking will result in inescapable tragedy, he can no longer say how that tragedy will play out.

Our perspective shifts as we relive the finale of last episode through Mytho’s eyes, with Rue’s consistent words of love all across her life all bleeding into that final, passionate outburst. Denied true love by her father, she sought affection from Mytho, and eventually obligation turned into personal truth. Inspired by her humanity, Mytho dances bravely through the raven’s guards, before echoing Rue’s revelation as he tells Ahiru “I have to save her. No, I want to save her. I want to save Rue.” Obligation and narrative roles have no meaning anymore – like Rue, Mytho has broken from his destiny, and chosen what he truly wants.

“I understand the pain of having your heart eaten away at by raven’s blood,” he continues, expressing how narratives can both poison our hearts, and also teach us to understand the pain of others. “It’s my turn to protect her now. And if possible, I’d like to take Rue as my princess. So Princess Tutu, please give me the last heart shard.” Just like his desire to save Rue, the restoration of Mytho’s heart at last becomes an expression of his own, personal desires. And though this speech denies Ahiru’s original wish of being with Mytho, she can’t help but cry tears of joy for both of them. Great characters grow beyond their narrative roles, and as their creators, consumers, or friends, we must be kind and courageous enough to let them, and perhaps even strong enough to grow alongside them.

But in the critical moment, Ahiru discovers her pendant won’t come off, and the raven imprisons Mytho once more. Warning Tutu to “return the pendant to the prince by morning, or I will rip his heart to shreds,” he spreads his wings and lets down a bloody rain, the instrument of his most fundamental desire. Just as he tried to warp Mytho and his daughter into his own image, his rain now curses the townsfolk of the clocktower town, turning them all into squawking crows. The Raven’s favor is a very selfish kind of love.

Meanwhile, Fakir is struggling with a very different problem, and receives advice from the most unlikely of supporters. Paralyzed by the responsibility of writing a happy ending for their tragic tale, our knight is visited by Drosselmeyer, who briefly floats the possibility of this being a recursive narrative (“is that person sitting and writing there me?”), before revealing he’s just being a dick as usual (“no, I would never sit and waver like that.”) But while Drosselmeyer can’t help but be an asshole, he’s also undeniably a master storyteller, and his advice to Fakir seems genuinely earnest. “You’re trying to be responsible about writing, aren’t you? That’s why you can’t write. When you write stories, you should do it more freely and irresponsibly, just following your own feelings.”

While Drosselmeyer is a cruel and thoughtless creator, his words touch on something that Fakir is unwilling to admit to himself. Taking Fakir’s hand under his own control, Drosselmeyer begins to gleefully scribble down doubts for Ahiru, as she is challenged on her reasons for being unable to relinquish the pendant. “You can’t give up the pendant because you can’t relinquish Mytho,” Drosselmeyer accuses, and Fakir is helpless to stop his hand, as he writes out selfish doubts he’d never willingly grant his friend.

And yet, the doubts he transcribes really do exist. The reason Fakir couldn’t write is because he didn’t want to write unhappy things happening to his friends, or uncharitable thoughts entering their minds – but we all experience unhappiness, and we all carry selfish thoughts. Ironically, it was actually Fakir’s love for his friends that prevented him from honestly telling their stories, because he couldn’t be honest to the ambiguous, human complexity of their truest feelings. Simply writing characters who are good and correct all the time is no way to tell a story, and truly embracing either storytelling or Ahiru the person means accepting that she can be selfish and imperfect just like anyone else. Through Drosselmeyer’s influence, Fakir is forced to play out one of the cruelest truths of storytelling – and though he grants Ahiru her doubts, his love for her is so strong that he ultimately stabs a knife into his own hand, silencing Drosselmeyer and setting himself free.

Rushing to save Ahiru from her own self-recrimination, Fakir is lead by Uzura beyond the town walls, to the Lake of Despair. In a sequence mirroring the mutual charity and sacrifice of this episode’s theatrical namesake, Romeo and Juliet, Fakir dives beneath the surface, the cold beauty of Swan Lake abandoned for the messy, emotional complexity beneath. And as Ahiru condemns herself for her selfishness, Fakir reaches out, and tells her “you’re not the only one. No one wants the story to end. No one but Mytho.” Just as Ahiru couldn’t relinquish the pendant, Fakir could not write an ending that separated the people he loves. “Don’t only blame yourself,” he pleads. “Everyone is scared of returning to their true selves. Because they’re used to being given roles in stories.”

But in place of that comfort and security, Fakir has found something else, something that is as frightening as it is empowering. “I want to protect Mytho and you because of my own feelings, not because it’s a role that was given to me.” Were the knight and the princess supposed to fall in love? It doesn’t matter, not to them. Sharing a dance at the bottom of the lake, Fakir speaks words of strength for both Ahiru and himself, his story reflecting a truth they share. Even unhappy truths, when shared, can offer a kind of solace. Even sad stories can let us know we’re not alone. By sharing their fears and encouraging each other with their love, Ahiru and Fakir ascend, their combined strength far greater for their beautiful, earnest, entirely unconditional mutual acceptance. “I’ll stay with you always,” Fakir whispers, and it is his heart’s truth.

Accepted by Fakir no matter her form, Ahiru easily removes her pendant, before dashing off to save the gallant prince. The final heart shard takes Ahiru’s own shape – a pair of fluttering wings, “for the people who had spent a comfortable time inside the story to leave the nest with.” Upon seeing Ahiru’s true form, Mytho kneels in honor, saluting his brave savior before turning back to save his princess. In the distance, Drosselmeyer mocks them for their hopeless situation, still certain this will all end in tragedy. But the courage and love these characters have learned will not be banished by a turn of the page; no matter how this story ends, he is already wrong.

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