The world doesn't need him anymore.

It doesn't need his sword and it doesn't need his pen. The time for princes and knights and beautiful heroins to fight and sacrifice was over and things had become disgustingly, irritatingly normal. So much so that eventually he begins to wonder/hope/desperately pray that there might be just the tiniest hint of magic left in the world. Maybe just the smallest of scraps clinging to the edges of reality, gone unnoticed by everyone as they bask in their blessed normalcy. After a while, he digs out his best pen, buys a new jar of ink, and deposits a very startled little yellow duck on his desk, because he's never been one to just sit on an idea, ridiculous or not.

As anyone away from their craft for too long, he stares at the paper, pen ready but indecisive, afraid of getting it wrong the first time because perhaps such magic only comes with a single use. Words, however, never stay far from a good writer and they begin to fall just within his grasp and he reaches to capture as many as he can before they fade and are lost...

Down one page and across the next, sheet after sheet fill with elegant script and even if this doesn't achieve the preferred results, he'll still end up with a damned good story.

He places the final words, turns the last page to complete the stack, and closes his eyes, preparing himself for disappointment when the soft, half chatters of the napping feather pile beside him gives a very female, very human shriek.

He looks up, startled and hopeful, and then away, embarrassed and blushing.

"Fakir-kun! You couldn't have taken the time to write me some cloths?"

A/N: Finally! The little afterward I always wanted to write for Princess Tutu. Sure took long enough to get the words for it!