Fakir's fiancée is one cute slip of a girl. She is pretty rather that gorgeous, with a face covered in freckles and a head full of thick red hair that just springs out everywhere no matter how long she stays cooped up in the bathroom each morning trying to tame it. She favours outfits of vivacious colours—yellow, orange, green—but the dress Fakir prefers the most is a long blue one made of mousseline from France. It draws the shade of her eyes quite beautifully (although Fakir would rather drop dead on the spot than say that to her face). To his secret delight, she is wearing the blue mousseline today. From her window, she is watching the rapidly passing scenery, babbling about sheep and mountains and oh! Fakir, did you see that cute little house over there? We should have a house like that!

And Fakir stares from over his book, feigning indifference, while a cold terror grabs his insides in a steely embrace.

On the neighbouring seat there is a middle-aged couple who are smiling slightly at the sight of the younger pair. The lady chuckles as she hears Duck's comment, saying something about young love and the birth of a new life together. As Fakir expects, Duck grows pink before the motormouth in her takes over and she goes on and on about their trip to Munich and how she had never left their hometown of Nördlingen before (Fakir had been surprised to find that Drosselmeyer's story had even changed the name of the town it had enslaved. Truly, he can't help but be horrified by the power the story-spinners wield) and how she hopes to be a dancing teacher someday et cetera et cetera. The lady puts her hands together and her smile grows fond. Evidently she seems to find Duck's candour and never-ending chatter rather adorable.

In a low and conspiratorial tone, Duck is now complaining about how dull it is to travel with a sourpuss writer who never strays far from paper or pen. Really, she tells the lady, he hasn't said a word to me since we've boarded the train, what kind of man am I going to marry? Fakir lowers his book and raises his eyebrows in a way that means Really, now? and she shoots him back a pout that spells out You're an antisocial dummy! The middle-aged lady is still laughing, and now she is saying but his eyes never left you, I'm never see a man looking so greedily at his sweetheart, you would think he was afraid you were about to disappear in a fleck of light.

Duck gives a girly giggle and tucks a strand of stray hair behind her reddening ear, but Fakir's fear bares its teeth and snarls up again.

The gentleman seems more interested by Fakir's profession and expresses a series of questions that clearly say Can you really support a family with your writing? and his tone is so condescending it frankly annoys Fakir. He is itching to give an inappropriate response, but before he can do so Duck kicks him softly in the shins under their table. She then spins a sob story about how passionate they are about their respective art—he and writing, she and dancing—and how it is better to follow your dreams to get that happy ending rather than live in fear of failure for the reminder of your life. The lady dabbles her eyes with a flowery handkerchief, but the man appears unimpressed. Fakir studies him closely—he wears with dignity both a well-cropped mustache and an immaculate military uniform. Fakir is suddenly reminded of fifteen years worth of thinking himself a soldier destined for sacrifice, of being imposed the role of a knight supposed to protect his liege and lady at the cost of his life. I'm meant to be a writer, he tells the clean-cut officer, and it brought me more than you could possibly imagine. Under the table, Duck's hand wanders and finds his, and he squeezes her tiny fingers.

Fakir's fear dims.

"What were you so afraid of, back then in the train?" Duck asks him as he hauls back their meagre luggage from the storage depot of the wagon.

Fakir shrugs, giving her a smaller bag to carry. "Nothing important, really," he mumbles the well-practised lie.

The frowning red eyebrows tell him how easily she sees through his fib.

"Does it have anything to do with one of your stories? Did any of them come true?" She puts her hand reassuringly on his arm.

For a moment he feels ashamed. His ancestor managed to subjugate an entire town for decades with his ability to bend reality to his whims with his writing. So far, Fakir has succeeded to give life to only one single fairytale character. Granted, she is a very important character. But she is only here for his own selfish reasons, not for her own benefit. He so desperately wanted to have his happy ending.

It takes him a few seconds before he answers. "No. It's not that."

In the station, the travellers disembark, reuniting with friends and family. The middle-age soldier and his wife find a younger couple with a toddler. Probably their son or daughter with their grandchild. The lady's laughter springs out and Fakir looks away, something still clenching in his chest.

"Are you afraid I'll turn back into a duck and disappear again?" A surprised Fakir turns to face her. She curls one small hand around his long fingers and continues. "I don't mind being human again. I can dance with everyone again," and her cheeks are pink and her expression is soft, "I haven't turned back into a duck yet, so your story is probably good enough for me to stay human for the rest of my life." She brings her pretty blue eyes to meet his concerned green ones. "The rest of our life." She finishes in a whisper and, on tiptoes, she kisses his cheek. After a moment, she narrows her eyes.

"You're too tall," she says, giving him a light punch in the shoulder, and he ruffles her hair, the corner of his lips curving at her indignant protests.

Author's notes : For some reason, I just had this image of Duck in a blue dress staring out the window in a train and it was so cavity-inducing I just couldn't let go of it. I think it's the ending that has broken my brain ;_;