What We Have Now

There was a cricket on one of the rushes, its antennae waving as it crawled cautiously up the slim green stem that bent precariously over the edge of a lake. The water was smooth and reflective as glass below the thick midmorning fog that hung in a satin shroud above the forest, providing the perfect cover for the bronze-feathered duck that had positioned her pleasantly plump body directly below her six-legged prey.

The cricket had almost reached the end of the rush; the duck narrowed her brilliant blue eyes and, with an imperceptible wag of her pointed tail, shot out from under the clump of reeds choking the rushes by the edge of the pond and clamped her beak around the cricket's body. She barely got a taste of it before it slid down her throat and was gone, but she didn't mind. A quick check over both shoulders assuaged her of her greatest fear at the moment; she hadn't been caught. He hadn't seen.

It was strange that she was worrying about it in the first place. She was sure he wouldn't mind if he saw her confronting another duck who had landed in her lake; he wouldn't mind if he saw her digging around in wet banks of mud to unearth roots or worms. What was it he had said? But isn't that your true form? Isn't that okay? Whatever happens, I will always stay by your side.

But all the same, she felt strange doing those things in front of him.

Fluffing her feathers, she paddled out towards the middle of the lake, away from the shore where she could still hear the two humans' argument that was taking place somewhere in the thick of the forest. Aotoa had taken them both by surprise; it was apparent to her that, by the tone of his voice, Fakir didn't appreciate his colleague's intrusion. Aside from them, the forest was quiet, heavy with cold.

She skimmed the water with her beak, trying not to pay too much attention to the racket that the Kinkan Academy graduates were making. She had a decent idea of what the two men were discussing, anyway. Fakir's current story. The one that was supposed to end with her turning back into Ahiru. Well, Ahiru the human, not Ahiru the duck.

That was what she had assumed the story was about, anyway. Fakir didn't like to discuss it with her. Often, whenever he sat on the dock with his quill and scroll and she approached him to see how far he had progressed, his eyebrows furrowed and a storm cloud gathered on his forehead. Then, out of fear, she would hide amongst the reeds until he coaxed her out with breadcrumbs and apologies.

Which was exactly why she didn't want him to see her acting like a duck. As the years passed she found herself struggling to remember what she had been like when she was a human; she had to constantly remind herself to not be afraid of Fakir, that he loved her, and she loved him, and that soon she wouldn't have to dig for worms or fight against the instinct to find a drake and lay a clutch of eggs. She turned in a quick circle, watching the ripples of water trembling away from her body. If Fakir knew she was having these kinds of difficulties, he might give up on her story altogether. It had already been seven years since he had first written the first words of her glorious song.

She got the idea that he thought he was running out of time.

Feeling the cold water against her legs and the sting of the air against the pulse in her neck, she was afraid to agree with him.

She was…old. And every time she looked at Fakir she felt that slow ache of realization that ducks don't live anywhere near as long as humans.

Fakir had protected her from the elements and from her natural enemies, true. And she had fought against her base instincts because she had the will to do so. But against the flow of time, they were both powerless.

She didn't want to rush him—Aotoa was doing that already. But she was no longer a quirky young hatchling that could stuff herself into lockers or settle comfortably in the comforting palm of a human's hand. Now she was the color of wild rye and she had long forgotten the weight of Drosselmeyer's pendant around her neck. She wasn't fighting a story. She was warring with mortality.

"Hey."

She turned her elegant head around like a periscope, letting her tail feathers wag happily when she caught sight of him—her human, her Fakir—standing on the bank of the lake. With some annoyance she ignored the tug of pure instinct which told her to flee the scene. Instead, her flipper feet churning, she paddled towards him.

His face was tired and unshaven and there were ink stains on the silk sleeve of his shirt, but he smiled at her and she could have died right then and there, as a duck, and she wouldn't have cared because he was Fakir and she would love him no matter what her physical form was. Hearts don't change, she thought as he reached down and picked her up, holding her dripping body against his. So even if he doesn't manage to save me in time, I'll always love him. I'm sure of it.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Ahiru." he said quietly. "Aotoa has trouble keeping his opinions to himself, as you already know. Now, how about I get you a snack? I'm sure you haven't found anything to eat in this cold weather."

Ahiru gave him a joyous quack, loving the feel of his voice vibrating in her bones and trying to squash the guilt of having a full stomach. Fakir lifted his hand and ruffled the fraying, brittle feathers on her breast before turning and carrying her towards Kinkan Town.

Listening to her knight's steady heartbeat, Ahiru tucked her head behind one wing and closed her eyes.

Time didn't matter, she decided.

One day, she would dance with him again.

Just a little ditty that came to me after watching the anime. Yes, fluffing feathers is Fakir's way of copping a feel on poor Ahiru. I was gonna have Ahiru die in the end but, eh. It's such an adorable story. Fahiru forever, dammit.