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When the Arcadia takes on a new crewman, she introduces herself as Miime, the woman who's pledged her life to Captain Harlock. It's true enough. She is a woman. She has pledged her life to Harlock. There's no need to mention she's also pledged all the powers of her mind, voice, and harp, and therefore all the power of her soul. The people who find the Arcadia (or who Harlock finds for his dearest friend) are satisfied by the simple truth, either because they've yet to realize there is a deeper truth, or because they already know hearts are private things, and it takes time and trust and thorough knowledge of one's own heart before one can try to understand the heart of another. Even then, a person can only understand what another is willing to share, and only the pieces that speak to their heart.
She shares very little of her heart, though there are parts she cannot hide from Harlock. The glimpses he allows her of his heart enable a certain bit of scrying on his part. And since she's pledged herself to him, she can't deny him even if she wished to. It is so lonely, being the only of her kind. Harlock's devotion to that part of himself he protects like the most of precious of jewels eases some of that loneliness. She's known many Jurans like him, though fewer and fewer as her people lost their spirit. Seeing him live with the unwavering conviction of a man who knows his own heart plucks at hers, and as painful as it is at times, it's a good feeling. It gives her purpose.
The humans have an old word: bard. It is close enough to what she is (had been) to her people. Close enough, but not exact. Even if she wishes to share this part of herself, there's no way to with words. Yes, she can say "bard", and if need be, the computer can provide the definition of the word, but that single word doesn't explain how it's a calling, a sacred duty her people once revered, long ago before they forgot why they had hearts. Before they let their souls and shrink. Before...
The Mazone is Georgibell, but she can't stop thinking of her as Fuure, not even with her vile condemnation -- "You foolish Jurans do not deserve life. Being manure for the Queen's flowers is more fitting." -- repeating itself in her mind, along with that mocking laugh.
The Mazone is Georgibell, not Fuure, never Fuure. The Mazone deceived her, not just once on the Arcadia, but for an entire lifetime. The Mazone never loved her as a sister. Her heart and her mind both know it, but still, their old bond snaps tight when the Mazone says, "Miime!"
She hesitates.
And the Mazone (not Fuure, never Fuure) disarms her. Well, what had she expected? That knowing for a fact now none of her race remains would somehow free her from her duty? That this could simply be a fight between her and the woman she had loved (still loved) as a sister? That she could just shoot the Mazone who had once (but never) been Fuure?
No. If she's honest with herself, she never thought that. She just wished it. Shooting the Mazone would be so much easier. But if Jura (if her people) would accept a simple laser bolt as their instrument of vengeance, another Juran would be the last.
Miime raises her arms, opens her heart and her mind and the core of her soul to everything the planet and the ghosts of her people want to unleash on the Mazone. Rage rolls into despair and regret and a bone-aching sorrow, and then so much emotion swirls within her that she can't separate the individual feelings. All she can do is let them burn through her until she is deadlier than a laser shot to the heart. Or what passes for a Mazone heart.
What passes for a Mazone mind is so much like a Juran's. She's entirely open to everything, so in those final moments before the Mazone succumbs to her onslaught, Miime feels her last thoughts. And perhaps it is the Mazone's last cruel act (or maybe her last regret), but just before she dies, she's Fuure: "Save me, Miime."
"Save me."
That's not her power. The Mazone burns like paper. Miime lowers her arms and falls to her knees, drained. The Mazone's sisters raise their weapons. Miime doesn't try to rise. She's served Jura's purpose. If Harlock still has a purpose for her, she'll live. Otherwise, she'll die knowing her final song touched its intended audience. It will have to be enough.
...Before the Mazone wished a garden for their queen.
"Miime."
She stops playing her harp and looks over at Harlock. He's at his desk, face half-hidden in shadow. The faint light catches the wine in his glass as he swirls it before taking a sip and setting it down.
"Yes, Harlock?"
"You said you saw Juran tulips."
She replays her last few notes. Still the same tune. Good. She can't change the song now. It's Harlock's, not hers, though like him, she'll live on through it. Such is the magic of song. "The flowers everyone saw differently, yes."
"Why tulips?"
"They were the first flower Fuure showed me." Her fingers are true, and she knows the notes are the same as she always plays for Harlock, but they sound bitter to her ears.
Anyone else would say, "I'm sorry," and perhaps even mean it, but Harlock isn't one for such awkward condolences. Or any condolences, some would say, those who need his unyielding nature to be harsh and cold.
Harlock can be harsh. She'll not deny that. Her song holds his full measure. Anything less would be a disservice.
"I would have liked to see Juran tulips." Harlock drains his wine.
She sets her harp aside and rises to pour him another glass. ""They are not so different from Earth's."
Just as her people are not (had not been) so different than his. Neither of them needs to say that, so neither of them does. Her heart has tuned itself to Harlock's. It knows when he wants the comfort of her words, the comfort of her harp, the comfort of her presence, or no comfort from her at all.
"You will not be the last of your kind!"
The words tumble from her like a flood bursting through a damn. The vehemence surprises her. Harlock's fate is not hers to dictate. She can only commemorate, can't she?
Something squeezes around her heart. Regret? She's served her purpose to her people. She can do nothing more for them.
Harlock nudges the neck of the wine bottle up to halt her pour. She's filled his glass almost to the point of overflowing. The wine quivers along the rim. He takes the bottle from her. "Thank you, Miime. I needed to hear that."
"Harlock." That thing squeezes tighter around her heart. It feels like the few times she's tried to escape her duty, but she did what Jura (what her people) asked of her. What more is there, except her pledge to Harlock?
Oh. There's only her pledge to Harlock. And Harlock asks what is needed when it's needed from those on the Arcadia. This is his heart's way (and hers) of saying he may yet need more before they face Queen Lafresia.
She'll give it. And then she'll give him (and his people) a glorious song. They'll sing of Captain Harlock in all corners of the galaxy for ages to come. She can give him (and his people) nothing less.