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"We join our heroes again on the evening of their first shift as fully-fledged Musketeers, willing to sacrifice life and limb to protect the princess and-"
A familiar voice cuts into his own. The turtle narrator startles, ducking into his shell and losing trail of the monologue all in one go. The feminine voice still reaches him inside. It sounds apologetic.
"Oh, sorry if I snuck up on you. Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"
The turtle inches his head out, only to meet Lady Daisy's gaze on the other side. What she's doing here is beyond him. The script calls for her to be at Princess Minnie's side at all times: yet here she is, uncoupled. Furthermore, he isn't used to characters in the story taking notice of him, no less breaking the flow of the story in order to address him directly. Cautiously, he looks at the camera crew, who whip their hands in the universal motion for "carry on". The turtle swallows his fear. What was the fun of reality-bending theater if not for a few live curveballs?
"Of course not, Lady Daisy. Forgive my prior rudeness. Just some late night nerves. Come sit?" He pats the bridge that he is currently sitting on, mandolin parked on his lap. She curtsies in return.
"Thanks."
The duck doesn't sit on the bumpy stone, opting instead to lean against it for support. Reaching into her dress, she pulls out a fiddle and bow from seemingly nowhere. The turtle silently admires the physics of this universe's pockets.
"It's something I learned to play in my simpler days," she explains, as if the turtle had been looking for a justification for the instrument itself and not the means of its obtainment. "Before the princess, and all."
"Music is a wonderful companion," he waxes, still unsure of where any of this is going but willing to play it by ear.
"Indeed. I do believe it's the only companion I'll have for some time."
"Nonsense. A woman as fair as yourself? I'm sure your knight in shining armor is closer than you think."
The duck smiles sadly, and the turtle is immediately under the impression that he has said the wrong thing. His eyes dart again to the camera crew - line? - but they reflect his confused look. Obviously, whatever semblance of a script they had beforehand is long gone.
"I'm afraid not."
"Chin up. Whatever darkness haunts you now will surely flee by the light of true love."
"Ah, is that what you think?" Daisy mindlessly pulls at her fiddle strings with her feathers, the echoes of a potential song bleeding out in response. "Unfortunately, 'true love' is what brought me to this pitiful state in the first place."
The turtle lowers his voice. "Listen, I'm really not supposed to be telling you this, but in a few scenes, you and Musketeer Donald..."
"Oh. Donald, is it? I can stop you there. I'm not interested."
The turtle furrows his brow, desperately trying to recall the story's upcoming contents from memory. The story only begun with the Lady's disinterest in Donald. Surely by now, there was meant to be an inkling of interest.
"Forgive me if I misspeak," he says, "but I'm fairly certain that..."
Fresh irritation floods her voice, and she cuts him off once more. "Now, see here, Monsieur Turtle. I took you for a musician. Can we play a song together, or have I made a mistake in coming to you for comfort?"
"I...alright." He decides dropping the subject entirely is in his best interest, lest he make the situation more uncomfortable than it has already become. "What shall we play?"
The melody magic of the universe overtakes Lady Daisy, and she immediately launches into a song without responding to the turtle. He strums his mandolin in turn, ready to accept his role as a backup musician on this particular track. Being in the spotlight for too long did awful things to a reptile's ego, anyway.
Daisy lifts her head upwards as she croons, as if appealing to some off-screen goddess.
I liked, but I never loved, before
I saw her royal face.
Now every feature I do adore,
and dote on Her Grace.
She never shall know my one desire
Which her lovesick look denies.
Unless my heart that's all on fire
should sparkle through my eyes;
if no gentle glance returns,
no silence left to speak,
my heart would forever burn,
then sigh, and break.
The song ends just as suddenly as it began, far skimpier than the turtle's usual epics. Yet he finds his heart pounding away at his chest all the same - Lady Daisy is not only a wonderful singer, but has been blessed with the strange ability to make her feelings the feelings of others. He wipes away a stray tear.
Anticipating some kind of encore, he remains silent in the wake of the song, waiting for her to add something. He finds only silence as their shared companion.
"Daisy? Lady Daisy, I mean," he finally offers, correcting himself. "I'm no author of this tale. Only its biographer. But if you feel so strongly, I might be inclined to suggest that you take fate into your own hands."
She laughs gently, the sound of it as fragile as glass beads scattered across pavement. "An appreciated suggestion. But my lady's heart knows its desire, and it's chosen that plucky musketeer. Don't pity me, Monsieur," she adds, observing the look that has been cast across his face. "Loving her means keeping her happy. And that's just what I intend to do - by sticking to my own destiny in turn."
As one who willed stories into existence by passion alone, the turtle should have been thrilled by the emotional complexity on display by the Lady, which had far exceeded his own imagination's bounds. And yet, nothing but a deep, black sinkhole had rooted in his chest. "Sorrow" was too light a word to describe what he was feeling. Where was the levity? The justice? Surely, her story couldn't end so miserably.
"It's getting late," she said, staring upwards into the night sky. "I should return to the castle. I appreciate your time and mandolin, Monsieur Turtle."
As the turtle watched her slowly disappear into the inky blackness of the night, he made two quick determinations. One, he had changed his mind on who his favorite character was in this particular story. Two, he had long outgrown the role of a mere witness - following the production, he would instead be adopting the role of an author.