Chapter Text
the last day of May, 843
Volker Frank used his final permit into the city to go down to the pier — to look at the sea one last time, that very sea beyond whose distant shores the enemy waited. Though now, it no longer seemed to matter to him. His duty had been fulfilled. He had done what he was meant to do. Done everything within his power to ensure that what was destined to happen would happen nonetheless.
Now it was someone else’s turn. And his own time had come to fade quietly into history.
He drew in a deep breath of fresh sea air. He loved the sea. He had spent his entire life in this coastal city, yet the Liberio internment zone had been deliberately built so that neither the sea nor the river could be reached from within its walls, and so he had only seen it a handful of times in his life — and usually for reasons far from pleasant.
At least this final time, he could look upon it knowing that tomorrow he would not be sent off to yet another war.
His service was over.
I hope none of this was in vain, the man thought. He did not expect gratitude. He knew perfectly well what he was, what all of them — the Warriors — truly were: nothing more than tiny pieces within the vast, merciless machinery of the Empire. Insignificant. Replaceable. Their names would be forgotten, just as the names of those before them had been forgotten.
And only he would be remembered as the monster who had sent children to slaughter — including his own daughter.
He lowered his gaze to his palm. After thirteen years of cutting the same place over and over again, even his regeneration had failed to erase the long, deep scar. But that wound was merely one among many.
The marks those thirteen years had carved into his mind and soul had never become scars at all.
They remained open wounds, still bleeding.
But there was little time left to suffer. Volker Frank had lived through his entire thirteen-year term — perhaps the first Warrior ever to manage it. And certainly the last.
Drawing one final deep breath of sea air into his lungs, he left the pier and began walking back home, back toward the walled cage of the Liberio internment zone. The gray, weatherworn city seemed especially bleak today, and yet life still pulsed through its streets.
While his own life was meant to end tomorrow.
Unaware that fate would grant him one final day at home, he had already said his farewells to everyone. He had even spoken with his successor, Marcel Galliard. It was a strange feeling. He had never truly wondered before what such a moment would feel like, but calmly conversing with the young boy destined to take his life from him had seemed unbearably horrifying.
And yet passing the Titans on to children had been his own idea. Perhaps he had no right to feel this way. Still, no one could deceive themselves forever.
For thirteen years, he had believed that when the time came to leave this world, he would do so with his head held high. Oh, how long he had spent convincing himself that he had done the right thing, convincing himself he had no reason for regret.
And yet, somehow, he regretted so much.
Suddenly, not a single I’m sorry he had spoken during yesterday’s farewells felt sufficient anymore.
And yet, somehow, his feet carried him once again to the home of the man he had called brother all these years.
And paradoxically enough, it was that very man to whom he had brought the greatest pain of all.
Knowing perfectly well that no one would answer the front door, Volker immediately walked around the house toward the small garden in the backyard. Klaus Keppler’s home was old — granted to him for his service to the country after its previous owners had graciously concluded their conscious existence upon Paradis — and yet it was obvious that the place had been cared for and loved.
What truly set the otherwise unremarkable little house apart from all the others, however, was the astonishing garden blooming within its narrow backyard beneath Klaus Keppler’s devoted care.
How cruel fate was, to force a man whose hands were meant to nurture life and help things grow to instead spend his years mercilessly taking life away, slowly destroying his soul and mind in the process.
He found his friend exactly where he always did — kneeling in the soil with his bare hands buried in the earth. Volker did not greet him immediately, pausing instead to take in the scene before him. There was something deeply calming about Klaus’s movements, and at the same time something painfully unsettling: a man whose own life would soon be stolen from him before its rightful time humbly trying to breathe life into a garden no one would care for after his death.
And it was Volker Frank who had signed that death sentence with his own hand.
Klaus lifted his eyes before Volker managed to say anything. A faint, warm smile appeared on the man’s face, and he nodded quietly in greeting.
Volker had never been able to understand why he did it. No matter how much pain he had caused him, no matter how often he had tried to drag him down, condemning his choices, Klaus Keppler always greeted him with a smile, always offered him his hand — welcomed him as a comrade, a friend, a brother.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” Klaus brushed the dirt from his hands before extending one of them toward his friend. “We already said our goodbyes yesterday, Volker. Don’t waste your time on me again. Go to your family. They’re waiting for you.”
“I know,” the man replied quietly, returning the handshake. “But since fate decided to grant me the happiness of one last day after all… I wanted to come by once more.”
“I already told you I don’t resent you,” Klaus interrupted gently.
Volker looked directly into his friend’s eyes, searching for it, searching for anger — anything people usually carried when standing before the one who had wronged them. The sort of feelings skilled liars and actors could conceal with words but never fully hide in their eyes. But Klaus Keppler was not one of those people, and Volker found none of it there.
It saddened him that even on his final day, he still had not managed to understand the source of such unconditional kindness in a man to whom neither life nor the people around him had ever been kind. And it was only one of many things Volker had failed to understand throughout all their years of friendship — paradoxical, considering how often he had arrogantly called his friend a fool or a simpleton.
“Want some coffee?” Klaus asked calmly, breaking the silence.
Without taking his eyes off him, Volker nodded and followed him into the house. He sat down in the very place that had once felt so familiar to him, back in the days when their friendship had not yet been stained by conflict, politics, Klara Febel, and all the other filth that had come afterward.
It seemed that throughout all those years, nothing here had truly changed — the same old yet carefully kept kitchen, the sparse utensils standing exactly where they always had, even the smell of coffee filling the room was precisely as it had imprinted itself into his memory. Like its owner, the house itself was simple, yet welcoming — even to men like Volker Frank.
Klaus placed a cup of coffee before his friend before sitting down across the table with one of his own in hand.
The moment the coffee touched Volker’s tongue, the corner of his mouth lifted involuntarily. As always, the coffee was utterly terrible — true military sludge, the sort soldiers somehow managed to brew over open fire. Black and bitter enough that the stomach wanted to reject it before it had even been swallowed.
And despite all that, the taste was comfortingly familiar — the taste of hardships endured side by side.
“I could never understand how you do it — how you don’t hold grudges.”
“And should I?” Klaus replied calmly, setting his cup down on the table. “You did what you were supposed to do. I knew I was breaking the rules. I did it knowingly. I knew about the ban, knew the military code,” his voice remained steady. “Just as I knew I was slowly becoming useless on the battlefield. I knew something was wrong with me, knew I was no longer fulfilling my duty properly. That’s what I was judged for, and all those accusations eventually became my sentence.”
He gave a small shrug.
“There’s a crime, and there’s punishment. Fair enough. And honestly, even if you hadn’t written those reports, someone else would have. And in the end, they would have demanded to know why you hadn’t done it yourself.”
Klaus looked at him quietly.
“You acted as a captain was meant to act. So… I don’t see the point in blaming anyone but myself.”
Volker lowered his gaze, staring into the blackness of the coffee in his cup. Perhaps those words were supposed to soothe his conscience — he was not being blamed, his actions had been understood, accepted. Klaus Keppler had knowingly broken the rules. He entered into a relationship with Klara Febel fully aware that such bonds between Warriors were forbidden. He disobeyed orders while understanding perfectly well how it would end.
Yes, Volker truly had done what a captain was supposed to do.
And yet somehow, it did not make him feel any lighter.
“I never wished harm upon you,” Volker murmured unusually quietly. “Not for a single second of my life,” his fingers tightened faintly around the cup. “But decisions are scales. And sometimes we’re forced to make choices that contradict our feelings, choices that hurt us or the people we care about… simply because they must be made.”
At last, he raised his eyes toward his friend, heavy with regret.
“I’m sorry that you and Klara were the ones placed on the lighter side of those scales. Believe me… I ended up on that side as well.”
But his gaze was met only with Klaus Keppler’s faint, almost carefree smile.
“You already apologized yesterday, brother. You don’t need to anymore.”
He spoke calmly, though eventually even his eyes lowered.
“And besides, I made those kinds of decisions too. My conscience isn’t any lighter than yours.”
For a moment, silence settled between them once more before Klaus continued quietly.
“I’ve done so much evil, Volker. Caused so much suffering. I never wanted to do any of it,” he stared down at his hands. “When I decided to become a Warrior… I didn’t understand what stood on the other side of the scales. I thought I’d be helping people. Thought I’d escape the swamp I grew up in, find a home, find people I could call brothers and sisters…”
His voice weakened.
“And instead, I spent years drowning in blood.”
He turned his eyes away, though at that very moment a stray beam of sunlight slipped into the kitchen and betrayed the single tear upon his cheek.
“This was never your place,” Volker said after a long silence. His gaze drifted toward the small window overlooking the flourishing garden outside. “You’ve always brought life wherever you went. Everything blooms around you. Dogs and cats flock to you. Children never cry in your arms.”
He looked back at his friend.
“I think the God you believe in wanted you to give life, not take it away.” His voice grew quieter. “And that’s exactly why I don’t believe in Him — I cannot understand why He forced you to steal other people’s lives instead. And I’m sorry that…”
“Or maybe that was His design?” Klaus interrupted softly. “Maybe my life happened this way so that those who come after me might live better ones. I hope that’s true.”
For a fleeting moment, hope almost brightened his voice — but the light faded quickly.
“But honestly…” he continued more quietly, looking away again, “I always wanted a family. A wife. Children. A dog. A little field I could work on.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I dreamed about that my whole life.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
“Sometimes… I looked at your family and envied you. Not bitterly,” he added quickly. “I was always happy for you. I just… wanted the same thing. Though, I knew it wasn’t possible… for me and Klara.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Eventually I got used to it. We both did. I even convinced myself that maybe it was for the best. When I’m gone, I won’t be leaving anyone behind. I won’t break anyone’s heart. No one will mourn me, and no one will shed a single tear over my death.”
Unlike me, who’s leaving behind a wife and children, Volker thought the moment Klaus fell silent, though he chose not to voice it aloud.
“During the Eastern Rebellion, whenever there was a mission no one was expected to return from, you always chose the ones who had nobody,” Klaus continued, studying his comrade intently. “You kept records of every soldier’s family. You knew who had children, who had a wife or someone waiting for them, who had brothers and sisters, who was the only provider in the household. And the first ones you sent were the orphans and the men nobody waited for at home.”
His gaze darkened slightly with memory.
“Back then, I thought you were a fucking monster — taking the last thing those people had left from men who already had nothing. Their lives.”
He lowered his eyes briefly.
“But over time… I started understanding many of the things you did.”
A weary smile touched his lips.
“It really is all a set of scales, isn’t it? You had to decide which lives mattered more, and which mattered less. There are already enough orphans and fatherless children in this city. You didn’t want to add to that number.”
His fingers curled slowly around the warm cup.
“Families welcomed their heroes home from war. And the ones who died on those missions…”
“As though they never existed at all,” Volker interrupted quietly. “Soldiers forever listed as missing in action. Soldiers no one would ever come looking for.”
“Like me,” Klaus said calmly.
“Yes, brother. Like you,” Volker answered just as calmly.
Silence settled over the room once more as each of them seemed to sink slowly into his own thoughts. Volker took another sip of coffee, and with it the last thirteen years of his service seemed to flash before his eyes: the first war, meeting Klara, meeting Klaus, another war, and another, bitter coffee brewed over campfires, letters from home, another battle, another, another, and another.
At last, it was finally over.
“You once said that all of us are nothing more than gears,” Klaus suddenly said, pulling him from his thoughts. “I never liked hearing you say that. And you said it constantly.” A faint smile crossed his face. “But over time, I began to understand what you meant.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair.
“We really are just gears inside the Empire’s machine.”
His gaze lowered to his hands.
“And I broke, Volker. Broke from every side imaginable. A broken gear doesn’t work anymore. It doesn’t turn.”
His voice remained calm, almost strangely gentle.
“And when a gear stops working, they replace it. The old one gets thrown away and forgotten, and a new one is put in its place — fresh, strong, full of life… until it breaks too,” Klaus lifted his eyes toward him again. “I’m saying this in case you still don’t believe me when I say I don’t resent you.”
A faint, tired smile returned to his lips.
“We’re all just parts of the machine, aren’t we?”
Volker glanced carefully toward his friend. Those truly had been his own words, and Klaus had hated them just as much as he himself did. Yet it was the harsh truth nonetheless. And though Volker had never cared for embellishing reality, he was not certain he was glad those soulless words of his had reached a heart as gentle as Klaus Keppler’s.
“And you want to be replaced?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t you?” Klaus replied coldly. “The only thing I don’t want is to be replaced by a child, Volker,” his fingers tightened around the cup. “I can’t stop thinking about what will happen to those children who take our places. I pity them so much that sometimes I want to tear the whole damned thing down…” His voice almost trembled with restrained anger. “But that wouldn’t change anything, would it?”
He looked away for a moment before continuing more quietly.
“I remember the first time I saw a real war. After only a few days, I thought I was losing my mind,” pain flickered openly across his face now. “I feel so sorry for them. They don’t know what any of this is. They don’t know what it means to be a Warrior. They’re just children.”
Then he lifted his eyes toward Volker again.
“I… I hope you know what you’re doing.”
There was something pleading in his gaze, something desperate for reassurance, but Volker’s tongue refused to move.
He did know what he was doing. He had always believed in what he was doing. And perhaps until his very last breath, he would never understand why his tongue seemed to die inside his mouth every single time he was forced to say it aloud again.
“I do,” the soon-to-be former captain of the Warrior Unit finally managed to force out.
Klaus nodded slowly, as though trying to make himself believe it.
Volker knew that, just like all the years before this one, he did not truly believe him. But there was no time left to fight the inevitable anymore.
And most importantly, there was no strength left for it either.
Klaus let out a heavy sigh and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Do you know why I’m not actually angry? Somewhere deep down, I’ve been expecting something like this for a long time. I didn’t find the strength within myself to end this torment on my own, so I suppose I don’t mind if someone else does it in my place. I’m tired, Volker,” he murmured. “So terribly tired. When you’re wounded your body seems to regenerate, but… for some reason I feel as though…I’m rotting like an unhealed wound. And rotting from within is a vile sensation. I always tried to do everything to prevent that — I always wanted to remain a good person, never wished harm on anyone… but it was simply beyond my strength. I hate my own thoughts; they torment me all day and even worse at night. I’m tired of them. I want to rest. I want peace. And if the only peace I can allow myself is eternal, then so be it.”
Volker didn’t reply immediately. Anyone hearing such words should have been struck with horror — but not him. He understood them. Terrible thoughts, and yet in some way they were familiar to him.
“Peace is the least you deserve,” he said quietly. “Whatever lies on the other side, I hope you find the peace you seek.”
“I wish the same for you,” Klaus replied, lifting his eyes again. A faint, bitter smile touched his face. “Go home, Volker, your family is waiting for you. And we have already said our goodbyes. More than once,” he said, rising from his place at the table.
Volker stood up to meet him and extended his hand, hoping he would shake it one last time.
“This is the last one, my brother. One final time—forgive me.”
“This is the last one. And I forgave you long ago,” Klaus said, returning the handshake.
As he left the house of Klaus Keppler—his friend, his sworn brother, his comrade—for the last time, his heart seemed heavier than ever. He had received forgiveness from the man to whom he had caused such unimaginable pain, more than once, and yet it did nothing to ease his own burden, for he could not find within himself the strength to forgive himself.
Volker Frank loved riddles, and the human heart had always been among the most fascinating to him, though never fully deciphered. One heart could go on beating calmly while committing crimes against its own conscience, while another could forgive those very crimes and still find the strength to smile in the face of an unjust death. And how his own heart could harbor such a firm belief in the righteousness of its actions, and at the same time such boundless remorse for those very same actions — this, too, was beyond him.
Unfortunately, he had no time left to find an answer to this paradox—or perhaps there was no answer to it at all.
His own home stood very near Keppler’s, yet for some reason the walk back felt like an eternity — an eternity long enough for him to catch himself thinking that, in truth, this “one last day” was not a reward for years of service, but another, ordinary torment — fortunately, the last. They had tossed him this final day like alms to a beggar. Here—go on, take one more look into the eyes of the people to whom your death will bring so much pain. Look at them once more, see how sorrowful they are. Watch their tears, see how frightened they are of being left alone. Go, spend one more evening with them, prolong this agony—and then vanish from the face of this world.
Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to cross the threshold of his own home, and even harder to sit at the same table with his family for the last time. To eat as though it were not his last meal, to ask how their day had gone as if it mattered at all, to act as though his heart was not bleeding with pain, as though his thoughts were not clouded with guilt, as though he did not know that the next day his beloved wife would be wiping the tears from their beloved daughter’s face, hiding her own from her.
Yet all of this was nothing compared to the moment when he had to sit by his daughter’s bedside for the last time. For the last time to tuck her in, for the last time to stroke her fair head, for the last time to look into her eyes — his daughter’s innocent eyes, frightened and confused. The eyes of a child who would soon have to take upon herself the heavy burden of that seemingly light, almost weightless red armband. But before stepping onto that path, she would, with her own eyes, have to see from his example how it ends.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered, clutching his hand as it gently adjusted her blanket. “I know it has to be this way, I just… don’t want it.”
Volker covered her small hand with his own. “I know. I don’t want to leave you either. But you understand, don’t you? You’re a clever girl,” he said calmly, though inside everything tightened painfully at his own words. The last of his strength was spent on telling his own child once more that her father’s death was something natural. Perhaps he should have come to terms with it over the years, grown used to it; indeed, it sometimes seemed to him that he had, but his throat still constricted painfully each time, his tongue moving only with effort.
“Yes, I understand,” she murmured, looking away.
He could see that she was afraid, even if she would not admit it; he could see the worry in her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Volker said, tucking a strand of her fair hair behind her ear. “It will be hard, but you will manage. I know you will,” he affirmed with quiet certainty. “Besides, you won’t be alone. I was given a promise,” he added more softly, slowly stroking her head, a faint smile appearing on his face.
The girl smiled faintly in return — names were unnecessary, for they both knew whom he meant. Her features would always light up at the mere memory of him, though even now her smile remained tinged with sadness.
“It’s late, my sunshine. Rest now, sleep,” Volker said just as softly. He was torn by conflicting desires: he wished for it all to end as soon as possible, so as not to torment either himself or his loved ones with his presence any longer, and at the same time he wanted to prolong this moment, to look at them once more, to imprint their features upon his memory, even though, by the very next day, that very memory would be consigned to eternal oblivion.
“I don’t want to. You’ll be leaving in the morning. Maybe I could wake up early and see you off with mom?”
He held back a heavy sigh, not letting it escape and disturb her already fragile peace.
“There’s no need, my heart,” he replied quietly. “It will only make it harder. For both of us. This is my request — my last one, I ask you to grant it.”
Her gaze fell, yet she gave a subdued nod. “All right.”
The man pressed his lips together almost imperceptibly after his own words, as though they had left a faintly bitter taste upon them. For a moment, silence settled over the room. The small bedside clock suddenly seemed to tick much louder than usual, each beat of its hand echoing in his temples — slowly counting down the hours and minutes he had left, urging him to speak his final words.
“I want to tell you something,” Volker said softly, and for a moment the ticking of the clock seemed to fall silent. “Listen to me, all right? It’s nothing if you don’t fully understand,,” he brushed his knuckles gently along his daughter’s cheek, and the girl immediately nodded, in her eyes he could see how ready she was to seize upon his words even before they were spoken.
Clearing his throat, he moved a little closer and leaned in, as though unwilling for even the walls to hear his final words to his daughter.
“This world is not the most beautiful place, and there are many bad and frightening things in it,” he began quietly. “But there is nothing in this world more terrible than loneliness. It renders a person powerless, weak, and gives the mind no peace. A human being is a fragile creature, and yet capable of overcoming many things, but not alone. One man alone is no warrior,” he said, looking intently into her bright, childlike eyes. “I have lived a little, and I know both sides, my sunshine — loneliness, and its opposite. And had I never known that other side of loneliness, I doubt I would even be speaking to you now. Do everything in your power not to let loneliness consume you. Cherish the people close to you, and always act with them in your thoughts.”
Silence fell over the room once more, and the girl gazed at him with wide, still confused eyes. Volker smiled faintly — he had not expected her to understand. At least not now.
“You may think my words are foolish,” he said, once again smoothing her hair. “You don’t have to dwell on them now. You may even forget that it was I who said them—it isn’t so important. I only ask that you remember the words themselves. All right?”
She nodded firmly. “I won’t forget,” she declared seriously.
“Right,” he said with a sad little smile. “You’ve always been a clever girl. A very, very clever girl,” he added, turning away for a moment as he felt a lump suddenly rise in his throat and unbidden tears sting his eyes. Swallowing it down with effort — the last thing he wanted was for his daughter to remember him this way, to realize how much it truly hurt — Volker turned back to her and opened his arms, inviting her into one final embrace.
Emilia did not lose a second; she immediately pressed herself against him, clutching at his shirt with her small hands — so tightly and desperately, as though trying to keep him in this world a little longer.
But, unfortunately, all he could do was hold her just as tightly in return, and for the last time run his hand over her head.
“I love you, little one,” he said softly.
“I love you too,” she murmured, her voice trembling with barely restrained tears.
Volker drew back, took his daughter’s face in his hands to look at her once more. He studied her features — this inconceivably perfect blend of his own and those of his beautiful Cécile — so tender, so childlike, utterly pure, that at times it was hard for him to believe that something so beautiful could ever have been created by him at all.
With one last sad smile, he rose from the bed and, once more, for the final time, tucked the blanket around her as she lay down.
“Good night,” he said quietly, then turned and left the room.
Volker Frank, the Destroyer of Nations, Captain of the Warriors’ Squad, could not find the strength to turn back and look into her eyes one last time before leaving the room forever. Only when he closed the old door to the attic room behind him did he rest his forehead against it, his lips forming a soundless apology. He would have liked to ask forgiveness as it should be asked for all the harm he had done to fall to his knees, to beg forgiveness for what she would have to endure, for condemning her to this torment, to plead for understanding, to explain that he had done everything for her sake.
But he could not do that; he could not so disturb a young soul and then depart into eternal oblivion. And even if he had found the courage for it, he would not have been able, at the end of his path, to tell himself that he had always been right.
Leaving the attic, he went down to the first floor, where the last person he was to bid farewell awaited him.
In the dimly lit living room, Cécile, his beloved wife, sat in her usual place in a soft armchair, waiting for him. The corners of her lips lifted into what at first glance seemed a serene smile when Volker finally took the empty seat beside her. Their hands met at once, their fingers interlaced, yet neither of them said a word.
So they remained in silence, his finger gently tracing her palm in a steady rhythm. She was the only person before whom he had no secrets left, and the few things left unsaid could wait a little longer, while he savored the feel of her refined artist’s hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” Volker said quietly. “It was cruel of me — to start a family and leave it like this. Defenseless.”
“It’s all right; it wasn’t your choice,” she replied. “If it comes to that — I am to blame as well. I knew whom I was marrying,” she added with a quiet laugh. “And don’t speak as though you weren’t happy all these years in our marriage — I know perfectly well that you believe it was worth it.”
The man could only respond with a faint smile at her words. “I had to go through a lot of hell beyond the walls of our home. But here, it was always wonderful. So yes… it was worth it. I regret that I have to leave you, but I do not regret that you were by my side,” his voice softened toward the end, his gaze still fixed on the window opposite, which looked out into their backyard.
Volker lifted her hand to his lips, closed his eyes for a moment, and drew in the scent of her skin. “When I’m gone, don’t grieve for too long, all right?” he said, resting his cheek against her hand. “Marry a good man. Have another child, as you wanted. I want you to be happy.”
“I am not looking for a replacement for the family I already have, nor do I intend to drown my grief in someone else’s arms. I have told you this many times, and if you thought that in the face of your death you would hear a different answer, then I can hardly believe you could be so mistaken about me,” she said quietly but firmly, looking him straight in the eyes, while a faint smile played on her lips.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear a different answer.”
“You wanted me to prove once more that I will always love you?”
“Perhaps… yes, a little,” Volker replied with a smirk, and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles.
In the dimly lit living room, where the funeral of the still-living Volker Frank was taking place, her carefree giggle rang out, blending in unison with his low laughter. His laughter faded first; his eyes lingered on the wrinkles at the corners of hers, on the lips stretched into a tender, sorrowful smile.
The woman who had once saved him from lonely madness was with him in the final minutes of his life—and that was far more than a devil like Volker Frank deserved. So much more that, for a moment, the thought crept into his mind that perhaps all his actions truly had been right after all.
Yet that was something he would never come to know.
“Then at least take care of yourself,” he said more seriously once her laughter, too, had faded. “Be prepared — that as soon as I’m gone, they will start sniffing around. Be careful. Tell them whatever they want to hear, whatever will save you. The only thing I ask is that you make sure they don’t find my notebook. When the time comes, it must fall into the hands of…”
“Volker,” she interrupted him. “I have already promised you: they will get nothing. Neither what’s in the notebook, nor what is kept here,” she gestured toward her own head. “That is what matters most. You have done everything you could. Now it’s my turn. My role is simpler — I will manage. Believe me,” she said with quiet certainty, never taking her eyes off his.
He pressed his lips together for a moment. No, he did not doubt her — he knew perfectly well that behind the fragile façade of a refined artist there hid a strong character and a sharp mind. He knew she would manage, and yet the worry did not leave him.
“I know. Still, take care of yourself,” he replied. “Don’t hurry to meet me — don’t even think of seeking me out until your hair has completely turned gray. I’m not going anywhere; I will have an eternity to wait.”
“I have never failed you, and I will not fail you this time either.”
“Thank you,” he whispered with a faint grin.
Cécile leaned forward, and her lips met his. The kiss was gentle — too gentle, not like the ones they usually shared. Too long, and yet not long enough. A last kiss, a farewell, filled with bitterness and yet sweet. The kiss of two people who had long accepted their fate and, like its humble servants, were walking to meet it.
“How would you like to spend our last night together?” he whispered as their lips barely parted. “Do you want to talk? Sit in silence? Anything.”
“I want to spend it as though there are many such nights ahead,” she answered softly. “Come to bed. We are both tired.”
In the morning, as he left his home forever, he turned back once more to look at it, replaying in his mind the final conversation of the previous day. He had not lied to her — he truly did not regret having had a family. But, in truth, neither did he regret that his time had come to an end.
He had long pondered why the bearers of the Titans were given only thirteen years. It was logical to assume that the body simply wore out, unable to endure such strain, but over the years he had come to understand that it was not so much the body as the soul. There was too much blood on his hands, too many thoughts in his mind — no, he would not have endured any longer. He had done everything he could.
He had done everything he could so that those who came after him would live.
***
12th of October 13th of October, 854. I haven’t been able to sleep for several nights in a row now; I can’t stop thinking for even a second. It’s night as I write this, so forgive me if my thoughts seem scattered across the page. Though, perhaps it’s foolish of me to apologize, since you’ll never read this anyway. In any case, I simply want to talk to you, and at the moment I have no other way.
Two days ago, at the assembly, the newly appointed commander of what was once your Intelligence Squad — Tobias Schaffer, whom you must surely know — gave a speech, and I am writing about him because it is precisely his words that give me no peace. In his long address, he mentioned Gabi and Falco — or rather, the candidates, since he could not, of course, remember their names. He said, and I quote: “so many resources have been invested in them that it would be a great loss if all those efforts went to waste and they simply died in the enemy’s claws without properly repaying their homeland, which bestowed such great honor upon them and their families.” And at the end he added that he also believed that the time had long come to replace me, since I had “worn out just like my predecessor,” whose name he also could not recall.
Klaus Keppler — that was the name he forgot. I admired him all throughout my childhood. He was a true hero — a man unafraid to risk his life for others. I wanted to be like him. I remember how eagerly I awaited the ceremony of inheriting the Titan — not only because I would become a Warrior, but because I would finally be able to speak to him, to shake his hand. But when that moment came, and I saw him for the last time, I could not even immediately tell whether there was a living person before me. They were holding him; he could not stand on his own feet, he did not speak, he stared into the void and saw no one. His lips moved as though repeating something over and over, but no words could be heard. It seemed that the body before me was merely a shell, and the man inside had long since died.
I think that was the first time I began to suspect something was wrong. Everyone knew that Klaus Keppler was a hero — there was no doubt about it — but the person who stood before me that day did not look like a hero. Or perhaps that is the true face of heroes? Worn down, exhausted — an ordinary man who gave his life for the well-being of others, only to be forever forgotten by them in the end.
But I did not forget him. It’s strange — I barely knew Klaus Keppler, and yet now I have the feeling that I know him very well. I simply did not understand him when I was a child. I remember how he often came to our training sessions, yet never helped and never spoke to us. He only stood by the wall and watched. I still remember that look of his, so empty, and every time we succeeded at something, he seemed only to grow more sorrowful.
I have finally understood him. I know what he felt. Many thought he simply disliked us, or did not care, but I know it was quite the opposite. I know this because I, too, have looked that same way at Gabi, Falco, Zofia, and Udo.
They are only children. Children should have a childhood — a happy one, at least somewhat carefree, as much as possible.
The more I think about what awaits Falco and Gabi, the more I recall our own childhood, or whatever remained of it after we received our armbands. I still have good memories from those days, the kind that make me smile even now. It’s funny, but in nearly every one of those memories I see your face — and unlike my own, I remember it very clearly. I remember how we used to play chess in your room, and how in the summer you would carry the board out into the garden. I remember how we found that path down to the river. I remember how we read together, and how you lent me books that I had to hide at home. I remember asking you to teach me how to draw, even though I knew I would never succeed. I remember how the three of us, with Bert, would pool our coins just to afford a single bun, and then sit by the bakery — so the smell would be stronger — and share it between us. I remember when Gabi was born — so tiny, like a doll. I would carry her everywhere, and my uncle would constantly scold me for getting her used to being held. Perhaps he was right, but even now I do not think I did anything wrong. And I remember how bitterly she cried after us when we left for our “mission.”
I cherish those memories. And yet I cannot rid myself of the thought that they are like drops in an ocean of madness into which we fell the moment we became Warriors. Back then I didn’t think of it — I didn’t know anything else, anything better; after all, it was what I had aspired to. But when I look back now, I understand what it truly was. I remember all the training, I remember our first time on the battlefield, our first assignments. I remember how the body grew accustomed to that unbearable pain during transformations. I even cried at night sometimes from exhaustion.
But childhood should not be like that. Children should not learn how to wield weapons, how to fight, to shoot, to kill. They should not be forced to make choices that are not truly choices, whose real cost they cannot understand. Children should not play among the ruins of cities, nor should they be the cause of those ruins. I personally have seen nothing else, but I know there is another way, and that is what I would want for Falco and Gabi. And I know that it was what Klaus Keppler once wanted for us.
I simply do not want such a fate for them. I do not want them to be spoken of as objects, as weapons, whose entire purpose is to be weapons. I do not want them to go through what we went through. I do not want there to be anyone after us at all. I do not know how to change this — Klaus Keppler did not know either. And I do not know how to help, but I have remained idle for far too long already.
I would like to try.