Anime has a bit of a problem with destiny. Usually, if the opening credits show a girl in a tutu and a boy with ethereal white hair, you know exactly where the story is headed. They’ll fall in love. They’ll defeat a vaguely defined evil. They will live happily ever after. But if you’ve actually sat through all 26 episodes of Ikuko Itoh’s Princess Tutu, you know that the bond between Princess Tutu and Mytho isn’t a fairy tale—it’s a deconstruction of one. It’s messy. It is, at times, incredibly uncomfortable.
Honestly, it's one of the most misunderstood dynamics in the genre.
People often come into the show expecting a standard magical girl romance. Instead, they get a meta-narrative about a duck trying to save a prince who doesn't even have the emotional capacity to thank her. It’s basically a psychological study on agency and the weight of expectations wrapped in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.
The Prince Who Wasn’t Really There
When we first meet Mytho, he’s a shell. He’s the Prince from Drosselmeyer’s story, "The Prince and the Raven," but he’s missing his heart. In a literal sense, his heart was shattered to seal away a Great Raven. This leaves him as a blank slate. He’s kind, sure, but it’s a hollow kindness born of a total lack of fear, pain, or desire.
This is where the dynamic with Princess Tutu—the alter ego of Duck (Ahiru)—gets complicated. Duck isn't just a girl in love; she’s an actor in a play she didn't write. Her "love" for Mytho is, at least initially, a requirement of the role she’s been cast in. She sees a beautiful, suffering boy and decides she must be the one to fix him.
But here’s the thing: Mytho doesn’t ask to be fixed.
For the first half of the series, the relationship is entirely one-sided. Tutu returns shards of his heart—Feeling, Regret, Fear—and every time she does, Mytho suffers. He starts feeling things he can't process. It’s a brutal subversion of the "love heals all" trope. Here, love (or the restoration of the capacity to love) actually brings immense pain. You've got to wonder if Tutu is being heroic or if she's just a puppet for a sadistic storyteller.
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The Problem With Being a "Savior"
Most viewers focus on the tragedy of Duck being a duck, but the real tragedy is the lack of consent in Mytho’s "healing."
Think about the Shard of Loneliness. Or the Shard of Fear. When Tutu returns these to him, Mytho's world becomes terrifying. He was safe in his numbness. By forcing him to feel again, Tutu is essentially dragging him out of a peaceful anesthesia and back into a world where he can be hurt. It’s a selfish kind of altruism.
We see this tension peak when Princess Kraehe (Rue) enters the mix. While Tutu wants Mytho to be the "Prince" again, Rue wants him to stay in the dark with her. Both girls are projecting their needs onto a boy who, for a long time, doesn't even know his own name.
The relationship between Princess Tutu and Mytho is a battleground for his soul, yet for much of the show, he’s the least active participant in his own life. It’s a heavy concept for a show that features a cat-teacher who threatens to marry his students if they fail ballet class.
Why the Ending Changed Everything
The reason Princess Tutu sticks with people decades later is that it refuses to give you the ending you want.
In a standard story, Tutu would become human, Mytho would realize she was his true savior, and they’d dance into the sunset. But that’s not what happens. The "happily ever after" for Mytho isn't with Tutu. It’s with Rue.
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Wait. Let’s look at that.
Rue is the one who loved him when he was a shell. She loved him when he was "evil" (after the Raven's blood tainted his heart). She loved him in his weakest moments. Tutu, meanwhile, realizes that her role wasn't to own the Prince, but to give him the choice to be with whoever he wanted.
By the finale, the bond between Princess Tutu and Mytho evolves from a romantic obsession into a mutual respect between two people who broke their scripted destinies. Mytho chooses Rue—not because he’s forced to, but because he finally has a heart capable of making a choice. And Tutu? She goes back to being a duck.
It’s bittersweet. Actually, it’s mostly bitter until you realize how empowering it is for both characters.
Breaking the Fourth Wall of Romance
The show is obsessed with the idea of the "Author." Drosselmeyer, the long-dead writer who manipulates the town of Gold Crown, wants a tragedy. He wants Mytho and Tutu to be trapped in an endless loop of sacrifice.
The relationship between Princess Tutu and Mytho is the tool Drosselmeyer uses to keep the gears turning. Every time Tutu dances with him, she’s following the steps laid out by a dead man. The moment the relationship "fails"—the moment they don't end up together—is the moment they actually win.
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They beat the narrative.
That’s the nuance people miss. If they had stayed together, Drosselmeyer would have won. Their separation is the ultimate act of rebellion against a world that demands they be "Prince and Princess."
Insights for the Modern Viewer
If you’re revisiting the series or watching it for the first time, look past the sparkles. The show is asking some pretty serious questions about the nature of storytelling.
- Watch the eyes: Notice how Mytho’s eyes change as he gains more heart shards. They go from flat and dull to sharp and expressive. This visual storytelling highlights his growing autonomy.
- Analyze the music: Every encounter between Tutu and Mytho is set to a specific piece of classical music (The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Giselle). These aren't just background tracks; they are clues to the specific "role" they are playing in that moment.
- Question the "Hero": Ask yourself if Duck is always right. Is it always better to "know" the truth and feel pain than to live in blissful ignorance? The show doesn't give a simple answer.
The legacy of the Princess Tutu and Mytho dynamic is found in how it treats its audience. It doesn't treat you like a kid who needs a simple moral. It treats you like someone who understands that love is complicated, sometimes unrequited, and often requires letting go of the version of a person you have in your head.
To truly appreciate what this show does, you have to stop rooting for the "fairytale" and start rooting for the characters' freedom. When Mytho finally looks at Rue and says, "I want to be with you," it’s not a rejection of Tutu—it’s the first time he’s ever spoken for himself. That’s the real magic.
How to Apply These Themes to Your Own Media Literacy
To get the most out of your next watch-through of Princess Tutu, or any subversion-heavy anime, follow these steps:
- Identify the Archetype: Figure out what "role" the characters are supposed to play (the Knight, the Damsel, the Chosen One).
- Look for the Friction: Find where the character's personal desires clash with their "destiny." In Mytho’s case, his desire to not be a tool of the Raven clashes with his role as a self-sacrificing Prince.
- Evaluate Agency: Ask who is making the decisions. If a character is only doing something because "it's the right thing to do," do they actually have a personality yet?
- Accept the "Unconventional" Ending: Practice seeing "non-traditional" endings (like the protagonist losing their powers or not getting the girl) as a victory for character growth rather than a failure of the plot.
The Princess Tutu and Mytho story isn't about finding your "other half." It's about finding yourself so that you're whole enough to stand on your own—even if that means standing in a pond.