Background

Once upon a time, there was a writer.  An aspiring writer, whose greatest wish was for his stories to come to life.  He became obsessed with the idea, obsessed with the only man who had managed to do it. The man was long dead but he had left behind a character of his own.  A person, the writer assumed, with parchment for skin and ink that moved through his veins, for that person had not been given heart of their own to pump blood through their body. The writer was delighted at the idea of making a living being that defied the laws of nature itself. He craved for the power and sunk deeper into his research. But soon the writer came to realize, that he and the place he resided in was ensnared in the dead man's final story. And to the writer's horror, he was not a dominant character at all. He was the background, a side character in a senseless fairytale. The girl he loved had fallen for a heartless man. The person with the key to everything true form was a bird. And worst of all, some unworthy knight helplessly held the power that the writer had so craved for…

Many years after the Raven, Autor still craved. He would stand next to Fakir, and supply him with ink for his endless stories for the duck. Autor eyes would fill with disgust as again Fakir would fail his feather adorned heroine.

It's not like he disliked Fakir as a person. It was just that whenever Autor looked at him snarls of jealousy would wrap around his heart and it showed in how he treated the ex-knight. But, he wasn't nearly so jealous now.

Because now…

Now Fakir was barren. He dropped out of school to continue to watch over Ahiru, The freckled faced girl that had saved the whole town, who had turned into the vulnerable form of a duck.  Autor had been surprised to find out that she had truly been a duck all along, and she had been tragically gifted with a human soul and feelings. And as if to spite them, Drosselmeyer had let her taste the fruit of having human flesh and blood to go with her soul and ripped it out from her. Autor hated to look at her, for her eyes shown with emotion and comprehension to great for an animal to possess.

In the opposite spectrum was Fakir, the boy now turned young man, who put on a blank face to hide his suffering from his beloved.  The people in town said some harlot broke his heart. But, Autor knew the truth.  How Fakir had searched for his precious duck. For some way for her to switch between her human body and the one she truly was part of. Autor knew that Fakir had found out the one simple rule about his gift. Why he could no longer write for Ahiru any longer.

That no living man can control for the sake of someone he truly loves.

Ahiru and Fakir we're now intertwined. He had promised to stay by her side, by changing her it would ultimately change him. He mourned the loss of her soft touch and the sound of her gentle voice. His old classmates would murmur about him from across their town's cobbled streets.

"Duck Boy!" they called.

So yes. Autor knew. He knew everything.

He was grateful to Fakir. Grateful to that little duck.

But, he still yearned for the power.

One night, when there was no moon, he walked up to the grave stone of the master storyteller and kneeled before it.

"Please, lend me the power; let me write what Fakir cannot. Let me offer my hands for your work!" he yelled, out stretching his hands to the stone.  

"PLEASE!" begged Autor, putting his forehead to the ground to hide the tears of desperation from his eyes.

"My, my, my, how interesting!" exclaimed a gnarled voice.

"Interesting! Interesting!" said a light girly one.

Out of the shadows came Drosselmeyer, rustic eyes shining with glee. Behind him came the little drummer girl that had stayed with him and Fakir on that night years ago.  She drummed a soft tune on her drum, her eyes wizened. The great storyteller took Autor's wrist in his hand.

"Calloused hands. Good for writing for long periods of time." Then he dropped it with a plop. "But, not even a tiny bit of the gift at all! Now that won't do!" he said pulling out a quill with a scarlet red feather off of his hat with a sadistic smile.  Autor's eyes widened.

"Ah you know what this is boy? The quill with no need for ink. It will give you the power you so crave. So write me a story boy! Lend me your hands!" with one last cackle the storyteller disappeared with the drummer girl. Leaving the scarlet quill where he once stood.
With shaking hands the writer took the quill.

Fakir and Ahiru embraced. It all came to be as Fakir had written; true loves kiss broke her free.

Autor stood in the background, pleased with himself, smiling at the couple.

For as they embraced they were unaware of the bandages of Autor's wrists. Or of the identical copy of Fakir's story written in Autor's blood.

And finally as they celebrated with a kiss, they remained unaware to Drosselmeyer laughing next to Autor, ecstatic that he once again had their and the towns  lives in his pocket.