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Ebenholz still has nightmares. Kreide is still dead. The voice still speaks to him in his sleep. The headaches still come in aching flashes. Even after everything, things are only like they were before, but Kreide is not there.
He, who soothes his pain with flicks of the wrist that make the sweetest sounds of his cello.
He, who loved with his heart in full and takes nothing in return.
He, who gave his life and expected the world to continue revolving as it does, and it does.
Ebenholz still wakes up in the middle of the night, half-wishing that he was back on the stage. Their eyes are watching him, piercing, waiting for every tune that floats out with his flute. With Czerny and Kreide, they are in perfect harmony. Hibiscus is in the crowd, watching expectantly, like he was a star.
Ebenholz still wakes up in the middle of the night, half-wishing that he’d never gone at all — that he hadn’t taken part in that doom plot that sealed them in a death pact, not to save himself, and yet have Kreide breathe his last. Then, he hears him, different from the one that screams in his ears and sends him a dull ache through his head:
It is arguably a miracle that we were reunited after so many years, he tells him. Ebenholz does not believe him because he died anyway, and he was all but powerless to stop it. It is arguably a miracle that we fought back against the fate that wanted us both dead.
No, no, I don’t want to go on if it means being without you, he hollers, but his voice is drowned out by the piano and the cello in perfect symphony — You’ve left me again and again, and I’ve only waited for you to return since; even if my mind betrays me; even if my body betrays me, I still want you here.
Ebenholz doesn’t play the flute anymore, but he still breathes; he still lives. Sometimes, he feels as if he shouldn’t be. Sometimes, he feels as if it should’ve been him. He would’ve given his life to allow Kreide a better one, but his fate was set in stone.
If you say we fought against fate, this is not the outcome I wanted for me. It is selfish for you to even think I would be happy to go on like this, he thinks, with coldness in his heart as he walks towards the moon.
He still remembers. The tilt of his beloved friend’s lips seemed so real in his dreams, the way his name sounds when it’s said by him. He still remembers the fire and the destruction and how he cried because he has never felt such pain, not from the Originium piercing his hand, dripping crimson to the ground.
Kreide went with no regrets. This, he trusts. Ebenholz carries the regret.
He still holds his promise. In the end, he never got to give him the coin with a hole, and he never thought of a gift for him either. He wouldn’t need to. Because he’s dead. Because Ebenholz would never forget anymore; would never remember anything anymore.
Hibiscus still checks up on him every other week to give him her healthy food, like she cared about his already-breaking body. Czerny gives him a passing look whenever they cross paths, like he still pities him to this day. Maybe Ebenholz doesn’t want pity anymore. Maybe he does not want to think of what his body will become when it is all but dust.
He picks up the cello and bow. It’s not as good as new anymore, but it sounds the same — it sounds like those days when he felt so content with himself, felt that he had more time to spend with Kreide.
He still breathes. He still lives. He still plays. It just doesn’t quite feel the same anymore without having Kreide accompany him into the song, a hollowness in his chest that he thinks nothing will ever quite fill.
He still breathes. He still lives. He still exists to see the sunrise every morning; still exists to see it set at dusk. The wind blows on his hair when he stands atop the landship, looking for a view he will never find, but even that doesn’t matter anymore.
He still breathes. He still lives. He is still living, and that much is enough for now.