Galop

Though Ahiru looked like she was gliding gracefully across the lake, she was kicking her webbed feet furiously underneath the surface. It helped her to think if she swam, and she was thinking hard now. A glance toward the dark-haired young man sitting on the grassy bank, his head resting on one hand while the other fiddled with the bright green blades, told her that he was doing the same.

It just doesn't make sense, she thought. All the magic left when the story finished. That's why I'm a duck again, and there were no Animals around. What's changed? I'm sure Drosselmeyer isn't toying with us again…

She made her way back to shore and waddled awkwardly up to Fakir. Gently, she nipped at the finger toying with the grass and flapped her wings rapidly. He looked over, surprised because he'd been so deep in thought he hadn't noticed her approach, and half-smiled as he scooped her up and set her in his lap. The fingers that had been running through the grass now ruffled the fluffy yellow feathers on Ahiru's neck and back as he returned to staring absently somewhere out on the lake.

"It's not him," Fakir said finally. "I would know if it was, I think. But it still doesn't make sense with what we saw. It was part of the story last time, so people didn't notice when the Animals disappeared, but shouldn't they have noticed this?"

But another story… Ahiru moved suddenly, losing her balance on Fakir's leg and falling onto the turf. Getting up, she flapped and quacked with excitement as an idea formed in her mind. Perhaps it was your story, Fakir! The one you were writing last night. You didn't finish it, so the magic continued it for you!

Fakir looked at her, confused. She was thinking so rapidly, and he wasn't able to understand any of it. "Ahiru, I don't know what you're trying to tell me. Is there any way you could make it a bit clearer?"

She rolled her eyes in response, slowing her thoughts. Home home home home home home home home home, she said in her mind as loudly and clearly as she could. Evidently it worked, because Fakir muttered half-heartedly under his breath before getting up to join the little duck who was waddling as fast as she was able in the direction of Charon's house.

They arrived not much later, having only stopped once in order to witness the familiar and much-missed sight of Mr. Cat attempting to politely get rid of Miss Goat, though he could now use the excuse that he was married. Charon glanced up as they walked through, but if he found their early return from their excursion odd, he said nothing. Ahiru waited impatiently at the foot of the stairs for Fakir to pick her up and carry her to his room, which she supposed could now be considered theirs since her basket was in there as well. That thought was fleeting, though, as was soon replaced with much quacking as she launched herself at the desk and stamped emphatically on the ink-stained pages.

"My story?" he questioned, puzzled. "You think this was my doing?" Ahiru quacked in the affirmative. "No… It can't be… This wasn't meant to do that. It's unfinished. I don't want to control this place. I wanted to change things, yes, but not this much, all at once. I don't want to be like him!"

Ahiru had never been very good at flying, but she used what little skill she had now to get from the desk to Fakir's bed, where he had collapsed with his grim thoughts. She moved up to his pillow and rubbed her beak comfortingly against his cheek. Not him, not him, she thought, focusing on Fakir. People are happy. This is good.

"If I continue, I might become like him. It's not right to control people's lives, especially when they don't even know it's happening!"

Then write that. It was aggravating to have to think so slowly and concentrate so much on her thoughts, but she needed him to understand. Write about choice, give them the chance to decide.

"How can they decide on what they don't know is a choice?"

They know subconsciously what makes them happy. Trust them, and trust your power. It'll be okay.

Slowly Fakir nodded, understanding her. He lay on the bed for a little while longer with Ahiru curled up against his cheek before reluctantly moving to the chair at his writing desk. Staring at the blank pages, he turned back to Ahiru. "Why can't you speak, if what I wrote affected everyone else?"

I was only ever a duck, came the sleepy reply from the bed as she drifted off for a nap. Never a Duck…

Again he nodded, dipping his pen in the ink and pressing it to his blot sheet before setting it to his story. He wrote furiously once he began, barely registering mealtimes or nightfall. He only ate because Ahiru would peck at him incessantly and attempt to sit on his pages if he didn't take a break. Occasionally she would flap up to see his progress, but couldn't make much out of the inked pages. For the descendant of a writer with magic powers, his penmanship sort of stinks.

When he decided he had done all he could, well past midnight, he doused the light and crawled onto his bed, careful not to wake Ahiru, who had curled up once again on his pillow. Sleep took him swiftly, despite his anxiety about what sort of ending his story would bring about.

A/N: Composer this time round is Dmitri Shostakovich. It took me forever to find music that suited this chapter. I think this captures the flurry of thoughts going through their minds as they try to figure things out.

Yeah, this chapter's short, too. I think this is just going to end up a really small fic, with the next chapter being the last. I had originally planned on something much longer, with, you know, a plot, but I don't write things down when I mean to, and you end up with this. Silly me. Not that it's particularly bad or anything. It's just not what I wanted out of this. Maybe I'll revamp it when I'm done. Turn it into a one-shot or something. Apologies for the slow update as well. Schoolwork is evil, muses are worse, and theatre OWNS MY SOUL.

Thanks to my lovely reviews! You guys seriously rock. Keep 'em coming, and don't hesitate to point out my typos. I catch most of them, but looking at that first chapter, we all know they still come through.

Aindel S. Druida