Autor shifted, a bored outburst pushing against the back of his teeth. Dark blue pooled at the top of the sky, dripping pastel paints into the sunset, and still Fakir was writing. Autor wanted to read, badly, but he kept his hands pressed bloodless against his knees, instead of grabbing the papers to examine with a haughty smirk. Part of his patience in the face of this maddening position might have been because he wasn't sure he could have managed the requisite smirk, in fact. He was privately impressed with the degree of the ex-knight's concentration, and the idea of interrupting him seemed distasteful at best. Autor could have almost acknowledged Fakir as a fellow artist; he would have been a good writer if he wasn't so... clunky, most of the time. It was possible that Autor's respect was gradually growing for him, and that was ignoring how it had climbed above the level of nonexistent to somewhat grudging already. A sigh slid through the musician's tight jaw, though it wasn't exactly annoyed. At least, it was more than only frustrated.

Fakir turned to him, and arched an inquiring eyebrow. “What?” He didn't really seem to care for Autor's thoughts, however, he had only wanted to put an end that irritating appraisal of his back. He quickly returned to his reason for stopping, lighting the lamp against the encroaching night. Autor blanched, apparently having forgotten that Fakir could communicate without writing.

“What in the world were you doing? We're still sitting here, so it doesn't seem like it had much effect,” Autor said, more sharply than he had intended. He stiffened, and folded his arms against whatever Fakir cared to come back with. He had been sitting there for just as long, and he believed in his right to needle Fakir about why. Of course, he might have chosen to at least occupy himself in some other way, but if he was to be honest with himself, he'd been too anxious for that.

Fakir ignored him. Autor's fingers twitched, an almost physical ache urged him to grab Fakir's shoulder and tug him around, but he was fairly sure it was his pride. And such an extreme would only damage that worse. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose, and huffed, “Fine, don't answer me.” I'm leaving, I've got better things to do- But no, he couldn't, and he told himself that it was just because he wouldn't admit Fakir was bother him, nothing to do actually wanting to see what Fakir was writing. He yanked the cuff of his jacket straight fussily, and leaned back into his own chair. “But really, you should be a little more polite.”

A heavy sigh. “If you're going to make that big of an issue out of it, sorry.” The disdain sounded more like a cover for a genuine apology, and that did silence Autor. He could not fathom what had convinced Fakir to say that. The trouble was that he did appreciate it, however reluctantly. That was unquestionably harder to answer to than any snide comment would have been, so he merely nodded.

Fakir didn't catch the gesture. He felt his seemingly constant frown loosen around his lips, though more with hesitancy than happiness. He owed something to everyone involved, even Autor, at this point, and though he supposed Autor's repayment would be simpler than most, Fakir had swallowed his frustration for the sake of honor. That was all that was required of him for the moment, and even if that hadn't been the case, it was all he was going to do.

He bent over the desk, graceful lamplight outlining his shadow over the words. He wondered if he was starting to think like a writer, whatever that meant. It wasn't doing much for him if he was, but the lamp had increasingly grown to fit as a metaphor for... Well, for Duck. He grimaced, something about it didn't quite feel adequate, and ultimately, it was a silly thing. He snorted, but despite the derision, he began to trace the notion under the lamp's glow. That light that didn't relent, small and unexpectedly solid, reaching out to him. It ignored the impossibility of anyone's task, just as she simply never spared a thought for any option but shining brightly.
That was Duck. Alright. He set it down gently, and he was sure it was him doing it, not the words. This wasn't his story, and it never had been. It was hers, and it would not be allowed to stop either one of them. The balance of pen against paper was deliberate, a dancer's step along the ground just before risking the leap on their partner's ability to catch them. He spun her story out now, and he would not betray the trust she had put in him to do it faithfully, to protect her happiness. He wasn't a knight. He didn't need a sword to protect her. He didn't need a pen, either.

He had forgotten what he owed her. She was going to be the most beautiful prima ballerina, and he had to support her in her grandest pas de deux. Seeing the words startled about half the blood in his body up to his cheeks, turning them a fiery crimson. He had intended the words, of course, but it made their message impossibly real. It was only what he had promised her, but he could almost see her before him, hovering in the air. Her hair pinned neatly, blending with the orange lamplight that dabbed her eyes in sunset colors. Her shaking form, imperfect, but grinning with the effort of improvement. But her angle was dangerous, unless someone came forward to hold her.

He gritted his teeth. There were bars between them. Twisted, black iron, forged by his own hand and embedded in rock between them. The pen flashed out, prying them into new shapes. A space wide enough for him to step through. He remembered, and grabbed Autor's hand at the last second, yanking him along. He ignored it when the other boy stumbled, because she was falling. The world swirled around him, muted darkness blurring into whiteness and marble.

 He was under her; she was in his arms, resting against him. He smiled, an uncommon display of tenderness for the girl. The girl again, it seemed, and not the bird. She gasped, “Fakir?!”

He nodded wordlessly, and straightened. For some reason, the thought of letting her go didn't come right away, and she moved with him. It could have been shock that held her still, or it could have been that she had no desire to leave him. Either way, he stayed fully aware of her presence as he made sense of his surroundings. They were on the stairs, and standing a few steps above them was a rather startled royal couple. Siegfried, bemused, withdrew his arm from a frozen posture, as though he had been reaching out to grab someone. Probably Duck. Her fall had been just that, a result of tripping on the stairs, or so Fakir quickly assumed. Quickly and correctly.

“Hmm, welcome, Fakir. I suppose this all begins to connect...”  The prince trotted elegantly down to a nearer stair. Rue went with him, holding on to the arm that hadn't flown out in a rescue attempt. She sniffed coldly, but offered a slight curtsey, which Fakir took as a peacemaking attempt. She was apparently more diplomatic as a princess. He accepted with a stiff nod, and then realized what was happening.

“Mytho! What's been-” Fakir might have bitten his tongue intentionally, but it was hard to tell. “Right... Prince Siegfried. I'm sorry. I caused you more trouble...” His face twisted sourly, but Siegfried didn't seem to mind.