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Disclaimer: I do not own Princess Tutu.

Author's Note: Full series spoilers ahead.

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It was so natural—so predictable—that he should have seen it coming yet, regardless, it had still somehow managed to blindside him. Maybe it was because she was normally so energetic, so alive, packing ten times the vitality of a normal person into her small frame that he had somehow thought it impossible. So, he had not noticed at first when her movements became more sluggish and her outbursts, less animated. Her loss of appetite, perhaps, was his first actual clue that something was not quite right—no, not "not quite right" but rather, "very, very wrong". But his mind seemed to unconsciously file away the information, attributing her symptoms to the weather or to her mental state—something, anything that meant he could look away from that single, inevitable truth.

It was when she began sleeping most of the day that he could no longer look away—could no longer pretend that things would be as they always had been. At first, he had tried to convince himself that she was merely tired from whatever it was she had done the day before. Despite his own insistence however that nothing was truly wrong and that, really she was all right (she had to be!), he found himself checking on her several times a day, his heart turning fearfully in his chest whenever she did not immediately awaken.

No. It couldn't be. It just…couldn't. How could someone so vibrant and healthy decline so suddenly? It was an impossibility, right? An impossibility—like being able to spin stories into reality he reminded himself grimly. But as the days slowly passed, and she did not recover from whatever had taken hold of her, he was forced to face the terrifying possibility that, maybe, she would not recover at all.

But, it was only natural, right? A duck who would live mere years if she was lucky could not live the decades a human was blessed with. Even in a town once controlled by stories—such a thing was all but impossible. Still, somehow, he had never once thought on it—never once imagine a world without her.

A few years ago, he would have dismissed the possibility that he would someday come to…care for her as much as he did now, just as he had, until then, dismissed the possibility of her truly being ill.

But still! How could she be taken down by something as trivial as this when she had stood against despair, against inevitability, hell, against very fate itself without flinching?! How was it that, now, he who had stood beside her in those days could do nothing more than helplessly watch her waste away? How was it, that now, when they both desperately needed a miracle, neither could manage to procure one?

But, he did what he could—taking her to doctors, forgetting that she was once again a duck and no longer a girl, only to be turned away and sent to the vet. What time he did not spend caring for her, he spent at the library, searching endlessly for information about any medicines that might be able to help her. The rest of his hours were spent tending to her: shredding paper and clothing with which to line her tiny basket, feeding her water and breadcrumbs when she would eat and puréeing her food and feeding her through a syringe when she wouldn't, and taking her to the lake to get some fresh air on the days when she seemed to be feeling at least a little better—weather permitting, of course.

Afternoons were difficult for her; often she did not want to eat. When she had the strength in those first months, she had fought, but lately, it seemed as though she had given up and, instead of fighting, sat passively while he fed her. Every night after dinner, when she had fallen asleep, he watcher her for as long as he could, hoping and even praying that they would both see then next morning.

While she slept more and more, he found that he could not sleep at all. His mind ran in wild circles, worrying over how much less she had eaten today versus how much she had eaten the day before, how long she had slept and how often or not she had even moved.

And then, of course, his mind would shift to the cause of her illness (as he vastly preferred to avoid thinking of what might be the result). Though no one he had asked seemed to know for certain, they had guessed that her illness might be nothing more than the effects of old age. He didn't like that; it sounded far too inevitable. Instead, he preferred to think that Drosselmeyer's meddling had somehow caused all of this—that though the madman's "gift" had allowed her to become human for a time, it had somehow drained whatever years she might have had left. Maybe that sick bastard had known this all along—had planned it this way to add an extra flourish of tragedy to this story, just to prove that he could. This whole thing seemed like something that man would write. And to think, that same accursed blood ran through his own veins. A foolish descendant of a foolish man; maybe, some things would never change.

And after everything, was this how it was going to end? It wasn't right. After she had worked so hard to give the story a happy ending—was this how she was to be repaid? Where was her happy ending? Though she had never said so, and he doubted she had ever thought so, he couldn't help feeling as though she had been abandoned by all the rest of the world. No one else in Kinkan seemed to have any recollection even of her existence if not of her deeds. Mytho and Rue, the only two people besides himself would definitely recall the scope of what she had done were no longer present—having obtained their happy ending and returning to the story. To some extent, he couldn't help feeling that even they had abandoned her and that he was the only one who still remember her and had stayed by her side just as he had promised. ? He knew it was childish to say so, but, it wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that she had been forgotten by even the story itself!

The story…that was it! He was Drosselmeyer's descendant after all—maybe the madman's legacy would finally prove useful. He quickly dismissed the idea however. He hadn't had enough power to even re-write Drosselmeyer's story; he would have near enough to bend reality to his will. And for him to reopen the story—that could put everyone in Kinkan in danger of become pawns again—and he seriously doubted she would want her salvation at that high of a cost.

He sat up and leaned over to where her basket sat at his bedside, feeling the need to check on her. But, it was more than a promise now, for he felt no obligation. In his eyes, she was not a duty or a burden. Rather, he felt that there was no place he rather be—or put simply, this was where he wanted to be.

She had helped everyone so much, but he couldn't help thinking that she had helped him most of all. She had changed him for the better and had helped him find his path. And now, there seemed to be nothing he could do for her in return. Damn it! He knew he was a failure as a knight, but was he a failure as a writer as well? Could he not save her, even now?

But still! There had to be something he could do—something besides shred paper and watch helplessly as she slowly faded away. But, this is how it always had been—he was always relegated to the sidelines, watching her as she followed after Mytho—just as he had been watching them following the events at the Underground Lake.

The first thing he remembered after falling into the water was awakening to her face and seeing Mytho hovering over her shoulder. She had reclaimed the Prince from Kraehe's clutches, but the only way she could have done that was…through an admission of love. How she had managed to do that without vanishing he still really didn't know as they had never really talked about that time. Still, the Prince had to have known how she had felt—it was the only thing that could have saved him. He had watched her then as she had danced with the Prince and had, truthfully, expected things to work out for her. There was no reason for him to interfere he had told himself, so, instead he watched over her and had never really stopped since then.

How surprised he had been when he had discovered Mytho's intention to take Rue as his princess. Though Ahiru had said nothing, he was certain her heart had broken. He had done what little he could—offering, instead, to stay with her always. He could never take Mytho's place—of that he was certain. He was a failure as both a knight and as writer—surely he would be a poor substitute for a Prince. But, he could not—would not leave her. Instead, he watched over her with nearly as much fervency as she might have once watched after Mytho.

She deserved better than this. She deserved to have a happy ending. She deserved to be at the very least remembered if not praised. She deserved everything she might have ever wished for, but, in the end, she had not gotten any of it. Instead, she had to settle for him as consolation and, after how he had initially treated her, he could not blame her if he was not high on her list of choices. But still, he was here and would do everything he could to help her.

He watched her now as she slept, curled into tiny ball in her basket, her feathers fluffed against the cold. He couldn't help thinking that her once golden feathers had now paled to a sickly yellow as though whatever she was suffering from was slowly leeching the life out of her, leaving behind only an empty shell.

He ruffled her feathers with his fingers and felt her shiver. So she was cold. He thought about moving her closer to the fire but worried that she might accidentally end up roasting. He needed her somewhere where he could keep an eye on her. Sitting on the edge of his mattress, her basket in one hand, he slid his pillow over, making space for her. He set the basket down and dragged the edge of the blanket over her, letting the corner drape into the basket. After a moment's thought, he pulled the blanket back slightly, worried that it might accidentally smother her. When he was satisfied that she was both safe and warm, he himself crawled back under his covers and turned on his side so that he could still watch her.

He wanted to say something—to promise her that it would be okay but could not find the words. He felt, once again, as he had that time Drosselmeyer had possessed him and had tried to force him to write of her death. Something had slipped—a gear out of place and the mechanism was no longer running smoothly. Things felt as though they were grinding to that inevitable halt and that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

The memory of seeing her walk into the depths of that lake, knowing that it was his pen that was dooming her to that fate sent a searing stab of fear through him, and he reached out, pulling her basket closer to him until the wicker weave bit into the side of his face.

He was losing her again, watching her go to a place he could not follow and unable to do anything to call her back. This time, there was no one at fault—no entity he could stop to save her. This was fate—this was nature—a juggernaut that would crush all who tried to stand in its way. But he would try, just as she had. The memory of her courage during the final stand against the Raven sent a swell of pride through him.

This little duck whom almost everyone had dismissed as powerless had, in her true form—not as Princess Tutu or even as a human, had managed to put to rest Drosselmeyer's tragic cycle that no one else had been able to stop by doing nothing but being herself. Against all odds, against all convention which had told her there was nothing she could have done, she had managed to provide the key to defeating both the Raven and Drosselmeyer—hope.

And now, he would use her gift—the same hope that she had granted him to save her from her own fate. How he would save her, he still did not know, but he knew that he would save her. Now was not the time for doubt or hesitation. He would do what he could even if it seemed futile because she had taught him that no effort, however small, is ever, ever wasted.

Slowly, his heavy lids fell shut like the curtains after a play, and he couldn't help feeling as though he had somehow glimpsed the very answer he sought in his memories of her. For a moment, he fancied he could hear her tiny, fluttering heartbeat as loud and steady as his own, and the soothing rhythm lulled him into blissful unconsciousness.

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He slept fitfully that night, the phantoms of half-remembered dreams plaguing him as he once again surfaced from his somnolent stupor. Her voice—her human voice lingered in his mind—what it was whispering, he could not tell. But he was slowly awakening, and her voice faded away with the last remnants of the dream.

This time instead of darkness, he awoke to thin shafts of sunlight dancing across the walls and ceiling, telling him in their silence that it was morning. When his eyes had adjusted to the light, he sat up and rubbed the bleariness away.

"Morning, Ahiru," he said with a yawn as he turned towards his nightstand where he normally left her basket. He started suddenly when he did not see it there before remembering that he had moved her the night before. He looked to where he had placed the basket on his mattress, expecting to see her there.

There was no sign of the basket. The blanket that he had used to cover her trailed off the mattress and onto the floor. Half-frantic now, he leaned over the far edge of the mattress. Her basket lay overturned on the floor, but there was no sign of her. He was on his feet instantly and had circled the bed, carefully picking up the basket. Strips of paper and cloth littered the floor, along with a few stray feathers that she must have shed, but there was no sign of the small, yellow duck.

He searched under the bed, the dresser and the nightstand, his eyes searching desperately for any sign of her, a few stray feathers, a small, round shadow, or even a moment glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, but there was nothing that he could see—no trace of her remained.

For a moment, the words of her previous curse floated into his mind.

If you ever speak of your love, you will turn into a speck of light and vanish.

Why he was remembering this now, he did not know, but something in his mind whispered that it was important. Perhaps it had something to do with whatever dreams he might have had; maybe that was why it was being whispered in her voice. But, there was no time to dwell on that. She was missing, and he had to find her.

Besides, there was no one here whom she would confess to.

He started for the door, hesitating for a moment when he realized that she was still a duck and could not have opened the door on her own. But, upon closer inspection, he realized that the door was ajar. Strange, he was certain he remembered closing it the night before to prevent this selfsame situation.

He moved out onto the landing, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of her. Where could she have gone? She had been so weak the night before. Where had she gotten the strength to go even this far? And more importantly, why?

He paused, glimpsing Charon at the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to have just returned from the market as he carried a large bag of food supplies as well as a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Just what time was it anyway? It must have been approaching midday if the market was already open. Had he really slept in that late? If so, Ahiru must have been starving. Maybe that explained her sudden disappearance—if she had possessed both strength and appetite, she'd certainly seek out food on her own. In her healthier days, she had been able to readily consume more than either he or Charon could. If so, that might explain why Charon had gone out shopping. Maybe Ahiru had recovered—had finally shaken off her illness and was back to her normal cheerful self.

For a moment, his heart lifted. It was a possibility, right? It was possible that she had made a full recovery. It was certainly better than the fears that had haunted him earlier. Cold fear clawed at him again. But what if…?

Charon looked up and saw him lingering on the landing at the top of the stairs. "You're awake."

There was an underlying tone in the simple statement that made his blood ran cold. As a writer, he created the space between the lines, this made him, of course, all but expert at reading them.

"Charon…Ahiru…?"

Damn it! Couldn't he even manage to form a coherent sentence? He needed to ask—to know what had become of her—to understand if the unreadable expression that now twisted Charon's face was the same worry that had haunted him when he had first awakened to find her missing.

But it couldn't be, could it? It couldn't be that she…

No. He had sworn to save her—not just sworn, but known that he would save her. He had vowed to move past all doubt and do what he could for her sake. Though concern for all the people in Kinkan barred him from taking up pen for her sake, he had told himself he would find another way to save her. There had to be some other way—some solution he was not seeing, but he would find it, just as she had found the supposedly impossible solution to grant a happy ending to what was doomed to be Drosselmeyer's greatest tragedy.

But the expression on Charon's face—a false composure masking some unidentifiable underlying emotion—told him that, despite all his vows and promises, it might all ready be too late.

"About Ahiru," Charon said slowly, "there's something you should know…I found her this morning…"

Charon's voice seemed to slowly fade in and out, eventually dwindling into silence only to be replaced by a numbness that seemed to suffuse all his senses. He was aware the other man was still talking, but for the moment, his mind became unable to process the information.

He found himself taking involuntary steps backwards towards his room door, and for the briefest of moments, he had the wild, impossible thought that he was being controlled by Drosselmeyer again—that maybe that madman had reappeared and found some way to turn this into the tragedy he so loved. But that was impossible. There was so blaming Drosselmeyer for this. If anyone was at fault, he was—there was no one else he could rightly blame.

Charon was calling out to him now—he could tell by the gestures—and the older man's face was twisted in concern. The reaction only served to fuel his fears, and he turned away, heading back into his room and closing the door behind him.

Truthfully, Fakir had never been one for melodramatics, they just didn't suit him. But right now, he needed to be alone and needed a quiet place to gather his thoughts before facing anyone again. Where had he gone wrong? Had he hesitated too long? Should he have written a story to try to save her? Just where had he failed? Though, there was little point in knowing such things now. He had failed, and no amount of analysis or regret could change that.

The fearful nausea that had been turning in his gut since he had awoken to find her missing seemed to have worked its way down into his knees. His limbs seemed to liquefy, and he wavered unsteadily.

It wasn't right. It wasn't right. It wasn't right!

A wave of anger and its concurrent adrenaline passed through him providing him with the strength to make his way across the small room where he slumped down weakly on the edge of the mattress. He was aware that his vision was blurring, that his eyes were stinging and that small bead of moisture were forming at the corner of his eyes. He would not call them tears; to give them that name was the same as acknowledging that a tragedy had occurred.

But it already had, hadn't it? Wasn't it already too late for what ifs and should have beens?

The room spun, and he spun with it, feeling for a moment as though the ground had suddenly been pulled from beneath his feet. It was a wild feeling, uncertain and utterly uncontrolled, and he went with it willingly.

It was almost like he was seeing her, as though she stood before him in this very room. Her voice chimed clearly in his ears. But, it was not her he knew. The image before him, produced from his memories and dulled by the years, paled in comparison to her. But, it was almost as though her could hear her say his name.

Fakir…

The sound drifted through the air, beautiful and clear, and he breathed deeply, almost as though he could absorb the very essence of her voice.

And, then, it was almost as though he could see it. No, not just see but perceive. An understanding of…something—he did not know what—passed though him like a current. Had he a pen in his hand at that moment, he was certain he would have written. It was just like that time at Drosselmeyer's grave when he had written a story to save her. He was certain he could do the same this time.

He started for his desk and threw his writing journal open to a random blank page. He reached for his quill but did not find it in its usual spot. He cursed under his breath and dug through a drawer searching for the evasive writing instrument. He had to hurry! If he didn't…!

But he couldn't find it, and, in the end, resorted to retrieving a discarded quill with a split shaft from the garbage can under his desk, thinking that it was better than nothing. With a deft twist of his wrist he unscrewed the cover of the inkwell and submerged the tip of the broken quill in the dark liquid. He placed the tip to paper and began scrawling furiously in the long, fluid strokes that defined his hand. But without a proper tip, the ink blotted, blurring his carefully constructed words into unremarkable smudges on the paper. For a moment, he was distracted by the ink which threaded its way along the paper, marking the paper with a dark, liquid spider web. By the time he shook himself free from his daze, it was too late.

The inspiration had fled as quickly as it had arrived, and he found himself watching the paper, this time without any clue as to what was supposed to come next. His muse had passed like a ghost, silently and without warning, and the impulse to write had passed with it. But he could not lose it—lose her!

He drew the quill across an unblotched patch of paper in a desperate attempt to recapture his vision of her, but no words would come. She was gone—not only his vision of her, but her presence, her voice. And it even felt as though he could not pull her face from his memories, as though she had been extracted from his life completely.

But such a thing was impossible. Nothing, not even Drosselmeyer himself could wrest her from his mind and especially not from his heart. It may have happened to the others, but that was then. Why would it happen to him only now? There was no reason for it—no possible reason.

He had sworn to stay with her always, and he would not abandon her even in…in what, exactly? Did he dare say death? How could he dare even say it? Still, whatever it was, he would not abandon her. Not just "not abandon" her—he would stay with her. Regardless. He had sworn it, and he would keep his word.

He buried his face in his hands, ignoring the ink that smudged from his fingers onto his face.

"Ahiru, where are you?"

Silence.

Then—

"I'm right here."

Her voice! He bolted to his feet, quill in hand. "Ahiru?"

"Yes?"

The words came from the direction of the door, and he spun to face it, expecting to find the room empty. He never expected to see her standing there. At least, he thought it was her. It couldn't be her after all since, when he had last seen her, she hadn't been human.

He stepped back, momentarily uncertain. Standing there in the doorway, she looked so…real, so painfully real, that he wasn't certain he could handle it if she wasn't. He reached out to touch her, almost ashamed of the tentativeness of his gesture.

She stood there watching him with those large, deep eyes of hers, her face framed gracefully by her vibrant, flame-colored hair, and her expression curious, almost comical. This time, the years had done what Drosselmeyer's magic had at their last face-to-face meeting. Her lithe body had given way to the soft curves of womanhood, and her face, which had lost some of its child-like roundness, was at once both innocent and mature. Her hair, still long, was not twisted into its usual braid. Instead, she wore it loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, as though she had not had enough time to coax it into its usual style. He realized as he studied her that he had absolutely no idea where she had found the white sundress she was wearing, but he consciously brushed the thought aside. After all, she looked positively radiant in it.

He was excruciatingly aware that he was staring, but he could not manage to tear his gaze from her. It was as though her very presence held him fast, and he dared not move for fear that doing so would end this moment and tear her away from him forever. His hand still hung midair, but he did not dare retract it.

The figment—he dared not think it was her—continued watching him until, at last, she stepped forward and took his hand in her own solid (!) one and pressed it against the curve of her cheek which, to his surprise, was damp with very real tears.

"Thank you," she said, her voice as low and quiet as a heartbeat.

"For what?" he asked slowly.

She looked up at him now, her eyes shimmering. "For not giving up on me."

Not giving up? What did she mean?

He stared. "But, what did I do?"

She seemed surprised. "What…? You don't remember?"

He shook his head and glanced away.

She closed her eyes as though deep in thought. After a long moment, she finally said, "You said something last night as you were falling asleep. Well…I don't know if said is the right word. I mean, I heard it and all, but I don't think you talked, so it can't be that you said it, but I'm not sure how else I can say it, I mean…"

"Ahiru," he began tentatively, "…you're rambling."

She blinked a couple of times. "Huh? Oh, right, yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to…it's just, it's the first time I've been able to talk in a long time, and I kinda got just a little excited." She gave a nervous laugh.

He couldn't help smiling as he listened to her—and he was now certain that it was indeed her and not some figment or ghost. She was exactly as he remembered, except that she possessed the vitality that all his visions of her seemed to lack. She was the same, in both spirit and form.

She continued on. "But, at any rate, you said something about writing a story."

His blood froze at her words. Had he written a story in his sleep? As he looked at her, he couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt. Though he was certain she was worth it, had he once again opened the door that they had worked so hard to close?

"But, I don't think you wrote anything," she continued, "since there's no manuscript."

He frowned. "But I must have done something, or you wouldn't be…."

"Human?" she offered.

He froze for a second. He had been about to say here, but, thinking better of it, he agreed with her. "Yes."

"Anyway, you did say one other thing, besides the thing about writing the story."

"What was that?" he asked, turning back to her.

She appeared thoughtful for a second. "I think it went something like, 'Hope is…a thing….'"

She pursed her lips, frustrated. "I can almost remember the rest. Just give me a second."

"It's okay," he said quickly. "It seems I did write something after all. But what bothers me is that I never put it down on paper, so it shouldn't have had any effect."

She shrugged. "Maybe you're stronger than you know?"

He stared at her for a long moment. Truthfully, he felt like scoffing at her remark. Him? Strong? Those two words didn't go together in his mind, but he didn't feel like contradicting her at the moment. Instead he asked, "What do you mean?"

She shrugged again. "Maybe there are ways to write without, actually, you know, writing. Maybe…it's like what I did….at the Underground Lake."

He glanced away.

She mimicked his action. "Maybe, it's like how I danced instead of saying—instead of confessing. Maybe there are other ways for you to write too—like maybe you can 'write' in your sleep."

"I hope not," he said quickly, "that would be extremely dangerous! I can't control what's in my dreams!"

"Oh, right," she said, "well, maybe it doesn't happen all the time?"

He thought for a second. "That's probably right. This town would be…strange to say the least if all my dreams manifested in reality."

"Strange like how?" she asked, curious.

"Once I dreamt that there was a giant octopus living in the fountain in the school courtyard."

She stared at him. "You've got to be kidding."

He looked at her, his expression dead serious. "I told you it was bizarre."

She tried to stifle a laugh but failed, turning away instead when she burst into laughter. He had to admit that it was good to hear her laugh again. Hell, even having such a conversation with her was more than he had hoped for in recent days.

"Are you finished?" he quipped when her laughter had dwindled to the occasional chuckle.

She stared for a long moment, valiantly fighting back another wave of laughter, before nodding. "Yeah. I'm done."

"At any rate," he continued, "maybe there's a set of conditions for using that ability, if that is indeed what it is."

"Maybe it's your feelings?" she suggested, suddenly serious again.

"Feelings?" He felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. "What do you mean by that?"

She glanced away. "I don't know. Maybe you can sleep-write when you feel strongly about something?" She hesitated. "Like, did you really want me to be human again?"

He froze, caught off guard by the question. To tell the truth, making her human again hadn't been at the top of his list recently. Mostly, he had wanted to save her. But…was that all? Had he only wanted to save her life or was it something else? He thought for a moment before answering, "I wanted to give you everything you wanted. So…I guess the question is, did you want to be human?"

Her reply was immediate. "More than anything! Well…almost anything."

He turned back to her, a bit surprised by her additional statement. "Did you not get something?" he asked. If she hadn't, then maybe this didn't have anything to do with writing unconsciously. But, then again, he couldn't help feeling that this was a bit more deliberate than simply writing in his sleep. It felt more as though the story was an actual part of him rather than a fading dream—like it lingered in his very veins.

She was fidgeting now and turning away as though searching for an escape route. "Well…kinda," she admitted after a moment. "But, then again, it wasn't the kind of thing just anyone could give."

He felt his heart sink to the vicinity of his ankles. He could tell from her hesitation exactly what she had not gotten.

He reached out an ruffled her hair, smiling to himself when she gave an indignant squawk. "You still…love him very much, don't you? Mytho, I mean."

She looked up, clearly surprised. "What? Wait, that's not…."

He turned away, not wanting to hear what he felt—what he feared she was about to say. "I wish…I was stronger—that I wasn't such a failure. I was a failure as a knight, and now I've failed as a writer. I don't—I—I can't even make you happy."

"But you do! More than anyone!"

Without warning, her thin, delicate arms twined themselves around his waist, and her head buried itself between his shoulder blades. Even if he could have moved, he did not need to turn to know that she was crying. Her shoulders heaved unevenly against his back, and her fingers trembled even in their iron grip around his waist. Uncertain of what to do, he placed his hands over hers after realizing that he did not want to extricate himself from her grasp.

"After everything I'd done to you, you can't mean that," he said quietly, tracing the shapes of her fingers.

She seemed to burrow her face deeper into his back. "After everything you've done for me, how could I not?"

"You don't have to feel so indebted. Your gratitude would be enough."

For a long moment she remained silent, before slowly loosening her grip and pulling away. When he turned to face her, she had taken a few steps away. She blinked several times, as though fighting back tears. "This is why I didn't want to be human!"

Sensing she was about to flee, he quickly moved forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he did not let her. "Why is that?"

"Because you always liked me better as a bird!"

The words were said so suddenly and were so wholly unexpected that it took him several seconds to remember that he had to react. In those few seconds, however, he managed to run through the entire spectrum of human emotions. It was as though a symphony had exploded to life in his ears, filling every corner of his soul with its melody. He moved, as though to unheard music, his hands slipping from her shoulders to her waist, pulling her towards him, and he leaned forward, his lips meeting hers briefly and sweetly before he pulled away to rest his head in the curve between her neck and shoulder.

"Idiot," he murmured to her fragrant skin, "I like you just the way you are."

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