Once upon a time there was a boy who aspired to be something greater than his small town had to offer. Every day he worked hard, and everyday he grew stronger and smarter. Finally, the boy had outgrown his small town and set out on his journey, forgetting all about the man who raised him and made his growth possible.

Ahiru squatted in front of a small sunflower sprout. It had been in her care for a total of six days and not only did it not die, but it had gained a little height. She smiled at the little green stalk. "Charon said he'd teach me how to make spätzle today. Maybe someday I'll be a total pro at cooking." She grinned toothily at the thought. Ahiru, the klutz, cooking gourmet meals the likes of Ebine. "Too bad you can't eat human food! Or I'd cook some for you."

She stood and wiped her hands on her clothes. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow morning when I water you."

With a sigh, Ahiru headed back inside. She finished her chores that morning and had a handful of hours left before Charon was done in the smithy. As she did every day, she idly entertained the thought of talking to Fakir. She hadn't seen him since their brief run-in a few days ago. How many days had it been? She didn't care to try and count. But, as she did every day, she ultimately decided not to.

She sat down on her bed and chewed on her bottom lip. "What to do, what to do…" She screwed up her face in thought, cycling through the different options she had. Just another thing she missed about going to school—it had a way of taking up time. She stood up suddenly. The library was sort of like school, and she hadn't gone since the day after the party.

The whole way to the library, Ahiru couldn't push the memory of the gray Princess Tutu from her mind. How long had she been gray? It had been the same shade as her pendant, and her pendant had grown progressively darker… had her costume been changing this whole time, too? She hadn't been paying attention. It's not like she regularly looks at herself when she's Princess Tutu. And if it was going to continue in this way, how many more fragments would it take to turn black? She shuddered at the thought. What would black even mean?

Ahiru found herself in the section she frequented ever since she thought she heard Uzura's drum. Not that researching the occult had been much help—she instead found herself reading scary stories of demons and evil witches that often made it difficult for her to fall asleep and sometimes gave her nightmares.

For a while Ahiru entertained the notion that Drosselmeyer wasn't just a dead man, but a demon. He certainly seemed to be a demon, anyway. From what she could tell, he met some of the qualifications: he has died, and he seems to possess some form of magic that he does not use for good. He has the ability to distort reality and likes to materialize in the shadows. However, after all of her readings, Ahiru didn't feel she could give Drosselmeyer the label demon. It didn't seem right. Maybe in some senses he was a demon, but in the true sense of the word? It didn't fit together in the right ways.

She considered ghost for a while as well, but somehow the man who spoke to her from beyond the grave didn't quite fit the criteria for ghost. He may have been haunting her, but he wasn't haunting her.

So, recently, Ahiru has been researching magic. Drosselmeyer displayed the ability to warp reality with his writing—something he had passed to his progeny, or at the very least, Fakir—when he was alive, and it continued into his afterlife. He had managed to do so with a machine, at least, that was what they had assumed. Ahiru remembered being a duck nestled in Fakir's arms, watching as he destroyed the machine that gave Drosselmeyer control over the town. If they destroyed the machine, then how did Drosselmeyer still have the ability to write another story? Despite her efforts, she didn't find much on magic via machine. At least, nothing that matched the magnitude of the events in Goldkrone Town.

What makes the magic of a living man continue into his death?

Ahiru groaned in frustration as she skimmed through the titles in the magic section. None of the titles screamed at her 'read me, I'm the one with all the answers!' Not that she should expect them to at this point, but it would be nice.

"How did Drosselmeyer die…?" Ahiru wondered aloud.

"Blood loss."

Ahiru jumped at the voice behind her, squawking in surprise. She whirled around to see Autor, light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, obstructing the view of his eyes as he adjusted them.

"Gees, Autor! You surprised me!" She laid her hand on her chest, willing her heart to stop pounding.

"You shouldn't be so loud in a library."

Ahiru shot him a look but didn't respond to his statement. "He died from blood loss?"

"Technically." Autor nodded and glanced around the section Ahiru was standing in. "Though, I don't know why you're looking for anything on Drosselmeyer here." He motioned for her to follow him, "Come on, I'll show you where his biographies are." With that, he left, not even checking to see if she was following.

Ahiru briefly looked back at the books on the shelf before hurrying after him. Though Autor clearly didn't know everything about Drosselmeyer, he certainly knew more than most. It wouldn't hurt, Ahiru figured, to get help from a self-proclaimed Drosselmeyer scholar when it came to matters pertaining to Drosselmeyer.

"So… how are you? I haven't seen you in a while." Ahiru spoke softly so as not to rouse the ire of the librarians.

Autor shrugged, "I've been busy." His cheeks colored slightly at the memory of the last time he had spent time with her. Abruptly, he changed the subject. "Why are you looking into Drosselmeyer's death?"

"Just uh… curious. I guess." Ahiru didn't seem to notice the sudden subject change.

Autor chuckled haughtily, "Unsurprising. He is a literary genius, perhaps the greatest writer of all time."

Ahiru resisted the urge to roll her eyes and tuned out his fanatic babbling about the deceased writer. They were already in the biography section of the library, and Autor clearly knew exactly where the books on D.D. Drosselmeyer were located. It wouldn't be long before he was pushing a big book in her face.

And it wasn't.

"Here," Autor said while handing her a red leather-bound book.

Ahiru took it from him and stared at the cover. It was plain and unassuming, belying the eccentric, sadistic man whose life its pages discussed.

"That one will have the most information on what you're looking for. He ultimately died from blood loss, but I guess you could say he was murdered."

"What?" Ahiru frowned at him, unable to stop her eyebrows from knitting in bemusement.

Autor smirked, and Ahiru wanted to wipe the pompous look from his face. "Back then, it was believed that Drosselmeyer had the ability to write things into existence. If he wrote it down, it would become so."

The duck-girl stared at him, unimpressed. No one knew this better than Ahiru.

"There was a group of men, a cult really, who claimed Drosselmeyer's work ruined their lives. So, they banded together to stop him from writing."

"The bookmen…"

Autor raised an eyebrow at this. "You know of them?"

Ahiru shook her head. "Not really, Fakir had mentioned them…" Rather, she had stopped them from cutting Fakir's hands off, but that was about all she knew about them.

"I, personally, believe that Drosselmeyer did have some sort of ability to persuade reality to his will with his writings; how else do you explain the realistic depictions of his characters? That being said, I find it far more likely the men were just envious of Drosselmeyer's abilities, perhaps even feared them.

"So, the men cut off his hands to stop him from writing. Drosselmeyer ended up dying from the blood loss."

"Oh." Ahiru had known Drosselmeyer had his hands cut off. This much Fakir had told her after he rescued her from his realm, but she had also seen them fall off his arms with her own eyes—seemed a bit unfair to still have your hands disconnected even in death, but considering it was Drosselmeyer, she figured he deserved what he got and then some. Regardless, it had never occurred to her that that had been his cause of death.

Smugly, Autor leaned forward, clearly proud of his knowledge on the subject. "You know, I believe Drosselmeyer actually held influence over this very town for some time. Maybe he still does."

Ahiru gave a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah?" It was a shame he didn't remember anything after the story came to an end—he would've loved knowing he was right. She sometimes wondered if Fakir had a part in that just so he didn't have to listen to Autor's gloating.

"Do you not think so?"

"No, I believe you," Ahiru assured as she opened the book he had given her. She idly wondered why he gave her the book if he was just going to tell her everything. It probably wouldn't hurt to at least skim through it, especially anything that mentioned his powers.

"I thought you would." Autor looked disappointed, though Ahiru didn't think it was because she believed him.

"Hey," she began, "are there any books on the bookmen?"

Autor laughed at this. "You want a book on a secret cult of men who kill authors who they fear have magic powers and rip the endings out of said authors' books?"

"Uhh… yeah?" Rip endings out of books? She had never heard that before, though it certainly explained a lot. Back when she and Fakir were working to save Mytho, the endings of Drosselmeyer's books were all missing. Fakir had complained about it often.

"Don't you think they would probably destroy any books or even people who tried to tell their secrets?"

Okay, that made sense. Ahiru made a face at him all the same. In any case, it appeared that Autor either knew of the bookmen or believed they still existed. She vaguely wondered if the end of the story had any effect on them.

Ahiru lifted the book in her hands, "Thanks, Autor."

"Anytime," Autor dismissed. "I am Goldkrone Town's leading Drosselmeyer aficionado."

"I know." Ahiru gave him a small smile, told him not to be a stranger, and bade him goodbye before trotting off to a remote corner to delve into the tome he handed her.

The book was a tad worn, though she could tell it was mostly from age rather than from use. She took a little pleasure in the knowledge that biographies on Herr Drosselmeyer were not popular. She imagined the majority of the traffic this book had seen was likely from Autor himself, and possibly from Fakir.

The information in the book wasn't as useful as she had hoped. The book claimed Drosselmeyer was a writer, but a cult believed he had some sort of powers, so they cut his hands off, ultimately ending his life. Despite the book's skepticism, it basically said the same thing Autor had just told her. She sighed in resignation. Knowing how Drosselmeyer died was certainly interesting, but it wasn't going to help her figure out how he was still writing a story. At least, not from a book that didn't even believe he had powers to begin with.

Ahiru stood with a stretch and put the book in the return cart. She had burnt a few hours at the library, perhaps if she took the scenic route back home, she would get back around the same time Charon did.

As she was leaving the library, she felt a prickle at the back of her neck. Almost is if someone was watching her. She turned back, but saw no one. "Ah," she returned her attention in front of her, "I spent too much time in the library and now I'm going crazy. Good thing I'm taking the long route, I apparently need the air." And with that, she marched on.


Drosselmeyer leaned back in his chair with a smirk. Floating in the air was one of his gears, and in it was Ahiru skipping through the side streets of Goldkrone Town. Despite the fact the gear was solitary and touched no other gears, it still ticked away, its spokes rotating around the image in time with other cogs.

"My, my, little duck," his voice was dripping with amusement, "it appears you've taken an interest in little ol' me." He laughed at this. "It won't do you any good!" She was surprisingly close to the answer she was seeking, and how she got there was beyond him, but it didn't matter.

"Uzura!" Drosselmeyer barked.

The small girl looked up at him from her place on the floor. "What, zura?"

"Uzura, did you visit our little duck?"

She stared blankly at him before turning her attention back to her drum. "Mm… no, zura."

Drosselmeyer chuckled. He couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling Uzura had something to do with it. Regardless of whether or not Ahiru figured out his little trick did not change the fact that the deal had already been made, and the story was already in progress. In fact, perhaps if she did figure it out, her false hope would make the final tragedy all the sweeter.

"Well, then, that's settled. Why don't we have some tea?"


By the time Ahiru got home, Charon was already in the kitchen. The ingredients for the spätzle were already out, and he was hunched over at the table chopping some greens.

"Charon?"

He looked up from his work after a moment, "Ah, you're home."

Ahiru winced. He looked exhausted. Maybe today wasn't a good day to make spätzle. "Uhm, yeah… Are you okay?"

Charon waved her off with a tired hand. "I'm fine, I'm just tired."

"Maybe you should have some bread or something and go to sleep early? We can cook another time. It's no big deal, really!"

"Nonsense!" Charon insisted. "I told you I'd teach you how to make spätzle¸ and so I shall."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Now go wash your hands and sit down." Charon patted the chair next to him. Ahiru hesitated, but upon seeing Charon's stern gaze, she complied. When she did, he smiled at her. "There, not so bad, now, is it?"

Ahiru pouted a bit before pointed at the leafy greens he'd been chopping. "What's that?"

"This is parsley. It's not necessary for the spätzle, but I think it adds something a little extra." Charon explained. "We don't need much, so this will actually do quite well. Will you grab that?" He pointed across the table at an oblong walnut-looking thing.

Ahiru grabbed it and turned it around in her fingers. "What's this for?"

"It's nutmeg. Here," he handed her a long flat grater, "we don't need much, just a bit."

Ahiru started grating the nutmeg while Charon stood up to put a pot of water on. He exhaled heavily when he tried to lift the pot out of the sink and Ahiru turned to him.

"Charon?"

He was leaning heavily on his hands, which were propped up on the edge of the sink; his arms locked at the elbow. A moment passed before he pushed himself back up and responded. "Sorry, kiddo. Had a long day at the smithy. Guess I need to sit a moment longer. Do you mind putting the pot on? I'll finish the nutmeg."

Ahiru nodded and quickly attended to the pot while Charon sat back down. Once the pot was on the stove and the fire was lit, she sat back down. "Are you sure you don't want to wait until tomorrow or something?"

"Nah," Charon dismissed her. "I told you, I'm just a tired. A little rest and a nice warm meal and I'll be fit as a fiddle. Now, here's the important part…"

She eyed Charon warily, but focused her attention on his instructions. With his instruction and watch, she combined the dry ingredients and was able to make a pretty decent well in them. While she was carefully mixing small amounts of the flour mixture into the eggs, Charon explained how to store the dough for a brief rest and how to grate it into a pot of boiling water to let it cook for a couple of minutes.

"Oh! I almost forgot to get the grater out. Just a moment." Charon stood from the table.

"Mmkay!" Ahiru placed her freshly kneaded dough in the bowl and covered it gently with a tea towel. She grinned. She thought she did pretty well for her first time and couldn't wait to taste it. Pride welled up in her stomach and she couldn't help but think that this peace, spending time with people she cared about—cooking with Charon—was true happiness.


Fakir stared listlessly out the window. He hated how long it's been since he had talked to Ahiru. He hated that the last real time they talked he did something stupid and had been avoiding her since. He hated that the last time he saw her, he tried to apologize but couldn't find the words. And he hated the way she looked away from him, as if she wanted to be anywhere but near him.

Because he deserved it. Because he took advantage of her. Because he betrayed her trust.

"You can't keep carrying on like this," Charon advised.

Fakir pressed his forehead into the cool glass of his window. A handful of days ago Ahiru went to a party, and he had no idea she had even been invited. Charon informed him when he snuck downstairs to get something to eat that night—and took the time to lecture him.

"I don't know what happened this time—it's always something with you—but, don't you think if she didn't care about you she would've left by now?"

It was true, she didn't leave, and that did give Fakir some hope. Though, she also didn't have anywhere else to go. And it wasn't like she was making an effort to seek him out.

'Because it's her responsibility to fix your mistakes, idiot,' Fakir mentally admonished himself.

He wanted to ask her how the party was, and who it was with. Charon took some pity on him and at least told him it was with some girls—not guys—she met in town. Was it her old friends? Or someone new? Was she planning on seeing them again?

He wanted so desperately to be back to where they were before he screwed everything up. When she'd practically break down his door to tell him about something exciting that happened moments ago. When she would beg him to go on walks with her. When she'd tell him about something she really cared about and her eyes would light up, and her face would glow, and her gesticulations would grow bigger and bigger.

Fakir was afraid they could never go back, not after what he did.

And yet, there was a part of him that didn't want to go back—no matter how much he wanted to deny it. He wanted what they had, and more. He wanted to hold her hand when they walked together, to pick her up and spin her in the air when he was happy, to cradle her head in his lap while she napped and he read. And yes, he wanted to kiss her again, and again, in so many different ways. He wanted to kiss her fingertips when she was being bashful, and kiss her nose when she was being silly, and kiss her forehead when she was being sweet. He wanted to kiss her again.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push the thoughts from his mind. There was no way he could make up with Ahiru when he was still thinking this way.

'Think of anything but that, think of anything but that…' he repeated in his mind.

His heart froze when a scream ripped through his brooding.

It was Ahiru.

He shot up and was running down the stairs before he could even process what was happening.

"Charon! Charon!"

When he reached the kitchen, she was on the floor, trying to pull Charon into her arms. Her head shot up her wide, tear-filled eyes met his. "Fakir!" Her voice was teetering on hysterical. "I-I don't know what happened! He-he w-was getting something and-and he just…just…and the coughing… and-and then…!"

"Stay here." Within moments Fakir was out the door and running to the stable. This was probably the quickest he ever prepared Lohengrin for riding. He felt like his brain had shut down the moment he saw his father lying on the floor. All he knew was he had to get to the doctor's immediately.

He hardly registered getting to the doctor's house or banging on his door. Nor did he really remember the ride back to his house. It wasn't until the next day he was even sure he actually returned the family horse to the stable.

When he got back, the doctor following closely behind, Ahiru was gripping Charon's hand and sobbing into his chest. At some point, it seemed, she moved him into the living room. The doctor brushed past Fakir and gently pulled the crying girl away from the older man.

"I-I tried to get him on the c-couch but, but I'm not s-s-s-strong enough," Ahiru wept.

The doctor reassured her that she did fine before motioning to Fakir to help him. Together the two men lifted Charon onto the couch. The doctor pressed two fingers to Charon's wrist for a moment before straightening up.

"His pulse is a little weak, but it's there. What happened?"

Ahiru wiped at her eyes in vain while she tried to explain what happened. She managed to tell the doctor Charon had just retrieved the grater for the pasta they were making, but before he made it back to the table, he had a coughing fit and collapsed.

The doctor sighed and told her to go get a bowl of water, towel, and a blanket. After Ahiru left, he began rummaging through his bag and went about checking Charon's temperature and listening to his chest. Once Ahiru returned, the doctor took the bowl and towel from her, instructed her to cover Charon's legs with the blanket, and resumed listening to his lungs.

A few moments passed, and the only sound was Ahiru's whimpers and the occasional strangled sob. The doctor sent Fakir a beseeching look, "I might need a moment…" Fakir nodded in understanding and pulled Ahiru into the kitchen.

"I'm so sor-ry," Ahiru cried. "He… he didn't look good, but he said," another strangled sob, "he said he was okay! I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have lis-tennned! I should've—"

Fakir shushed her and pulled her close. "It's okay, it's okay…" She buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle. He repeated himself a few more times as he rested his chin on her head and was no longer sure if he was reassuring her or himself. All he could think about was his father lying unconscious in the other room.


Fakir wasn't sure how long they stood like that, or at what point Ahiru's cries dwindled into hiccups, or when they waned completely. He took solace in her steady breaths warming his chest, and she in his rhythmic heartbeat. He chose to focus on the way her fingers were bunched up in his shirt while he traced soothing, mindless patterns on her back, rather than their current fears.

A cough from the doorway drew the two from their reverie and they separated. The doctor was standing near the entrance to the kitchen and was gesturing behind him.

"Your father's going to be alright. It appears he has a cold which is being exacerbated by being overworked. He's regained consciousness if you'd like to go see him." Fakir and Ahiru rushed past the doctor and into the living room where Charon was lying with his eyes shut.

"Charon!" Both teens exclaimed as they hurried over to the couch.

Charon blinked his eyes open. "Hey, kids," he murmured wearily. "Sorry I gave you a scare."

"He's going to need at least a week of bedrest, depending on how quickly his health improves, and plenty of fluids." The doctor instructed. He pulled a little container from his bag. "And make sure he takes one of these a day." He handed the container to Fakir. "And absolutely no blacksmithing until I give him a clean bill of health."

"Come on, doc," Charon protested.

"I will visit you next week to check on you, and we will talk about it then." The doctor responded with a sense of finality. Charon looked like he wanted to object further, but he was simply too tired to.

Fakir thanked the doctor for his time and saw him out. When he returned, Ahiru was kneeling next to the couch, speaking in hushed tones with Charon.

"It's okay, really," Fakir heard Ahiru say. "I'm just glad you're okay. Are you hungry?"

Charon shook his head in response. "No, just tired."

"The doctor said we shouldn't move you tonight," Fakir interjected. "You should sleep here and I can help you upstairs tomorrow."

Charon groaned, but didn't complain.

"I'll get you some water." Ahiru stood up and scurried off into the kitchen.

Fakir spoke once they were alone, "You shouldn't push yourself so hard. You're getting older." He walked over to his father's side.

"I'm sorry I worried you, son." Charon grasped Fakir's hand in his own and gave it a single squeeze before letting go.

"I still need you here." Fakir admitted quietly.

Charon gave the boy a soft smile, "I'm not going anywhere, yet."

Ahiru bustled in, balancing a cup of water in one hand, and a plate with bread in the other. "I know you said you weren't hungry, but I thought I'd make you some bread and jam incase you wanted to nibble on something." She set both down on the coffee table.

"Thank you, dear."

Fakir pulled a small white tablet from the container the doctor gave him and handed it to Charon. Ahiru handed Charon his glass of water while Fakir set the container down on the table. Charon took his pill and handed the glass back to Ahiru.

"Alright, give this old man some space so he can sleep."

"If you need anything," Ahiru offered, "just give a holler, okay? I'll be right down in a second."

Charon chuckled, "I will."

"Goodnight." Fakir stood by the light, waiting for Ahiru.

"Night, Charon."

"Goodnight, kids."

Ahiru walked over to Fakir, who turned out the lights. She peeked over her shoulder briefly before following him into the hallway.

"I guess we should probably go to bed, too, huh?" Ahiru looked forlornly into the kitchen. She worried the dough would go to waste, but she wasn't really hungry, nor did she feel like putting the effort into making the noodles now.

Fakir nodded and the two made their way up the stairs, both exhausted from the nerves that had ravaged their bodies. Fakir trudged his way to his door, but stopped short of opening it.

"Ahiru?" He stared heavily at the metal doorknob his fingers were curved around.

She turned towards him and he could feel her eyes on his face.

"I'm… sorry."

When she didn't respond he glanced down the hall towards her. She stared at him for a moment before she opened her own door. For a horrible second, he thought he had undone their unspoken truce and they would go back to avoiding each other, but she looked back to him and gestured for him to follow her inside.

So he did.

Gingerly, Fakir entered Ahiru's room, as if too heavy a step would break the spell. She shut the door behind him, crawled onto her bed, and drew her knees up to her chin. Again, she gestured for him to join her. Fakir sat opposite her at the foot of the bed and tucked a single leg under him.

A moment passed and neither of them said or did anything. Both stared pointedly away from the other.

Finally, "I shouldn't have done that," Fakir apologized.

Ahiru turned her big, cornflower blue eyes towards him and she waited for him to continue.

"I just… uh," he closed his eyes and tried to recall the million different ways he had practiced saying this, but couldn't recall a single one.

Ahiru wanted to tell him it was okay, that they could put it behind them, but part of her needed him to do this. She needed an explanation whether it made him and her uncomfortable or not.

Fakir rested his forehead on the fingertips of his right hand as he tried to steel his nerves. Suddenly, he blurted, "I love you, okay?"

Ahiru's mouth opened slightly in surprise. She didn't know what she expected, but she wasn't expecting that. It felt as if her thoughts were simultaneously going a thousand miles a minute and yet had come to a screeching halt. He was clearly not done, though, as he seemed to open some sort of floodgate and now his feelings were just pouring out.

"I don't know when I fell for you—whether it was the moment you trusted me with your true self in the underground lake, or how fearless you were in the face of adversity—but I knew the moment I called out for you at Drosselmeyer's grave. I knew that I loved you and would stay by your side as long as you let me. You must know, surely you must know, I would never try to hurt you.

"I never meant to force my feelings on you, and I am mortified I kissed you the way I did. You were just so beautiful, and I couldn't help myself—not that that is an excuse—and—I'm sorry I kissed you without your permission, but… I'm not sorry I kissed you... I mean, I am, but, rather, I mean to say… I love you, and I don't regret that."

When Fakir gained the courage to look up at her, he was horrified to see tears streaming down her face. "Oh god, you hate me." He resisted the urge to curl into himself and instead chose to remove his presence from hers. He started to get up when she leaned forward and clasped both of her hands around one of his.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and whispered, "No, I don't."

Fakir swallowed and closed his eyes, willing himself to ask the question he was terrified of asking. He had come this far already, he couldn't stop now. "Do you think you could ever love me?"

Ahiru's heart broke and the tears poured down her face even harder. She didn't know how she felt, and she couldn't let herself imagine anything in the future, not when she didn't have one. And now she would be responsible for breaking Fakir's heart, no matter how she felt. She was appalled with herself for so many reasons, but she wanted to be honest about her feelings to him. Regardless of how she felt, he was the most important person in her life.

"I-I don't know," she choked out. Perhaps it was a blessing she couldn't see his face clearly through her tears. She gripped his hand tighter when she felt him start to pull away. "Please, you don't understand. I don't… I don't understand love.

"The only time I ever—ever thought I loved someone was Mytho. And… you were there! I never actually loved him—well, love-loved him—it was only his shard of hope affecting my feelings. How can I trust myself to know what love is? If I can't tell the difference between hope and love…" she trailed off, praying Fakir understood what she was trying to say.

Fakir gave her a sad, sympathetic smile, and Ahiru found some comfort in it.

"Please," Ahiru begged, "please know you're my best friend. I wish I could tell you how I feel beyond that, but I-I can't." She wanted to ask for time to figure her feelings out, maybe she could love him. But, how could she when she had no time? Instead, Ahiru said something she had no right to ask of him, "I just… I just can't lose you."

"You won't," Fakir reassured her. "As long as you want me by your side, I will be."

The tension that had built up in Ahiru's body without her knowledge released, and she pressed her forehead against his knuckles. "Thank you," she whispered.

They sat like that for a while before the day took its toll on them and they both fell asleep, sideways, on Ahiru's bed.


Fakir's eyes fluttered open, and his first thought was that this was not his bed. His second thought was of the girl whose arms were wrapped tightly around one of his. His memories of the night before came filtering back and Fakir wanted nothing more than to extricate himself from her hold and go live under a rock for the rest of his life.

He had done it, he finally told Ahiru he loved her, and she may not have rejected him, but she didn't not reject him either. What was he supposed to do with that? It was like his own personal purgatory.

Ahiru shifted in her sleep, her bangs fell out of her eyes and he could see how swollen they were from all the tears she shed the day before. He sighed in resignation and pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face with his free hand. He never considered Ahiru to be uncertain of herself. Only once, when she sunk into the depths of despair under Drosselmeyer's influence, did she ever display uncertainty. But, he understood. Fakir had never stopped to consider that her experiences with Mytho would leave her unsure of her feelings. He remembered how longingly Princess Tutu had regarded Mytho. How a soft smile graced Ahiru's lips and her face flushed pleasantly when she spoke of him. To find out those feelings she had interpreted as love were a combination of her natural affection towards people and his lost shard of hope would be devastating to anyone.

Fakir would stay by her side. Not just because he loved her, or because she asked him to, but because she was his best friend as well. They had been through a lot together, too much to throw away over a broken heart. He was hurt, but he would live, and he would grow.

Ahiru moaned and slowly opened her eyes. They hazily settled on Fakir's face before they drifted closed again. "Morning," she murmured.

"Morning," he replied.

She hugged his arm tighter and buried her face against it. "Too early."

Fakir rolled his eyes. "Then go back to bed." He should be asking for his arm back, but somehow the words didn't come to him.

"G'a fef urds." Her voice was muffled by his arm.

"What?"

"G'a feef uh bs." She tried again louder.

"Ahiru."

She pulled her face away, pouting. "Gotta feed the birds."

"Then go feed them."

Ahiru shook her head and tucked her face back down. "Dun wanna. Eyes hurt."

Fakir groaned, "Do you want me to?"

Fakir could feel the wheels turning in Ahiru's mind as she mulled over the thought of him taking over her personal morning chore. A moment later, "Mm, okay."

"You're going to have to let go of me, then."

Ahiru released her grip on Fakir's arm and snuggled further into her blankets. Fakir stretched and forced himself to stand up. His back and neck were sore from sleeping in an awkward position. He rubbed at a kink as he walked over to her window.

Sure enough, a small flock of birds were perched upon the window sill. A cursory glance was enough for him to figure out what needed to be done. He dipped the small dish into the feed bag, opened the window, and placed the dish out. The birds eyed him cautiously before hesitantly bouncing over to the dish. Apparently, they decided he was safe as it wasn't long before they were ravenously pecking through the seed.

He smiled while he watched them eat. It was getting steadily warmer and the morning air had a welcome breeze to it. The sky was clear without a single cloud, and he could tell it would be a nice day. Past the hungry birds was their small town going through its morning routine.

Maybe she didn't reciprocate his feelings, but she hadn't rejected him either. For now, that was enough.

He had hope.


A/N: Teens and their feelings, amirite? Also, we're half way now! Can you believe? Ten years later, and here we are. Haha.

Anywho, so, I have been sitting on a minor detail that I left out and needed to fix. See, it's pretty well documented that Fakir, canonically, has a horse. My research has led me to believe he specifically has a German Black Forest horse based on its coat and mane. This is a detail that doesn't get a lot of acknowledgement in fanworks, nor was it that important a detail in the canon. So, I kind of tussled with this: do I continue pretending he and Charon do not have a horse? Do I go back and write the horse into the same minor existence it enjoyed in the show? I decided on the latter. Now I have to try and suss out the approximate age of the horse, who uses the horse for what, what's the horse's name, etc. I was not a horse kid growing up and have exactly one hour of experience riding a horse, so I had to do a bit of research to come up with reasonable answers to this. Ultimately, I've decided the horse was purchased after Fakir came to live with Charon, and li'l Fakir named the horse Lohengrin because he's a total nerd like that. I'll be going back and adding minor details about the horse soon, but there will be more info on that in the next chapter.

Thank you for your continued support!

Also, snaps to those who caught that itsy-bitsy half quote from the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie.