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Ebenholz hated closing his eyes.
Depriving himself of one sense only sharpened his others; sinking into darkness only brought him closer to choking on the rising notes of a macabre melody. He would hear its cruel whispers, feel its fingers clawing up his spine, stroking at his nerves like harp strings. He could even taste it — a bitterness that welled up on his throat till it touched his tongue, as if pushing air in a flute going upwards through his windpipe. Usually, his body was an instrument — drawing him against his will to music as its purpose.
Now, though, he was simply empty.
His ears twitched, the soft goat’s fur ruffling against his hair. The clamour of the outside world rushed in to fill him, that single voice that he was so used to gnawing at him replaced by the overwhelming bustle of the crowd around him. Their endless chatter converged into a stream of white noise, ringing in Ebenholz’s head and interrupting his thoughts.
He blinked his eyes open, light slowly returning to his world. Ebenholz found himself in the middle of a Leithanien marketplace, nestled as closely among the people as he could manage and yet still separated from them. To them, the Graf Urtica was a relic of the past. Ebenholz used to argue he belonged the most here — that the looming gothic buildings matched his dull brown cloak best, that his furrowed brow reflected most accurately the rolling grey clouds passing overhead. Even the wind blew in tandem with his breath, moving in almost intangible gusts amidst gaps of deathly stillness. The Witch King was his past as much as it was the country’s, shaping him into who he was; yet the Graf Urtica of the present simply wanted to blend into the Leithanien square alongside the locals around him.
He had wanted to be one of them.
Now, Ebenholz was resigned to his fate. He simply wanted to move on.
Still, something made him linger here — a sensation haunting as the echo left by a cello’s fermata. For initially, it started off as a grand note, one that captured attention in its audience; a boy who stood apart from the crowd, much like Ebenholz. He was smiling, which was enough to differentiate him on these streets — even though Ebenholz smiled back at him, he didn’t stand out nearly as much. Receptive to the performance, Ebenholz fully indulged himself — appreciating how the boy’s flowing white hair and ghostly complexion offered him a contrast of life to his drab surroundings. If Ebenholz was a part of this landscape of dreary wooden stalls and imposing concrete monuments, then Kreide was a breath of fresh air — having little of his own, yet unchained to the cold stone.
Quietly, Ebenholz pondered how the mark of nobility separated him from the people around him, who maintained distance from the courteous Grad as if he were a wild beast. Yet he saw the same applied to Kreide too, who should’ve had no such barriers. Kreide was a being of warmth, but still they gazed upon his plainclothed friend with disgust. The melody he had perceived when he first looked at his friend had turned haunting, causing a long abandoned anger to simmer within him.
And as that long note ended, leaving but its deafening echo, the sobering realisation struck — Kreide was Infected, and they had no place on Leithanien land.
Kreide approached him, and Ebenholz shook himself out of his thoughts. He placed his hand in Kreide’s, who had learned by now to acquiesce as Ebenholz guided him through the crowd. A pair of furious eyes settled on Ebenholz’s back, but he paid it little mind — it was more important that his presence warded off any derisiveness the marketplace crowd might muster. Kreide’s fingers were coarse with toil, but the gentleness with which they clasped Ebenholz showed a rare comfort, even though they were trapped in the grasp of the dreaded Graf Urtica. If anything, with the way he shifted unsteadily, it was almost as if he was worried for the young lord who so fearlessly extended Kreide such gestures.
“No luck there, either,” Kreide said nonchalantly, his voice meek. There was a certain airiness to it, and his feet tread so lightly on the cobbled roads that it was hard to tell he wasn’t in the clouds. He was searching for trinkets — small things he could remember all the people he cared about by. Kreide loved all those little things in life.
“It’s not a matter of luck if you’d let me reason with them,” Ebenholz replied, slowing down to allow Kreide to walk alongside him.
Kreide chuckled. “They’re only shopkeepers, Eben. It wouldn’t be fair to let you terrorise them with your tongue.”
“Oh? As Graf Urtica, wouldn’t it be my duty to encourage local business by making them sell to you?” While he found it hard not to grin as he talked to Kreide, a slight edge formed on his deep voice. It was an unfamiliar feeling — anger for himself was something he had long since given up.
“I thought you wanted to live like one of us,” Kreide responded simply.
And I want you to be able to live. The thought passed through Ebenholz’s mind, but he decided to not voice it. He understood by now that it would be a pointless argument. Instead, he grunted coldly, but a light in his eyes belied his amusement.
“Besides, I don’t want them getting in any trouble with your tail,” Kreide whispered, slightly heated with anxiety. His eyes darted behind him, and his hand squeezed slightly tighter to Ebenholz, who simply let out an icy laugh.
“Don’t worry. If he had any competence at all, he’d be given an actually useful job,” he stated, raising his voice slightly so it would carry across the chatter around him.
Kreide laughed. “Ah, you make it sound so normal,” he said, the terseness in his shoulders dissipating a little — though it made Ebenholz wonder. Was it normal for Ebenholz to be so accustomed to the golden leash they had fit him with? Or was it more normal for Kreide to be so mortally afraid of any company that followed in their direction? He shook his head.
These questions were pointless, especially in a dream.
Paying attention to the noise around him gave him no more clues as to what they were saying, even though he thought he knew what it was about. No directions guided the sprawling avenues nested amidst the towering Leithanien Spires, standing as an ostentatious reminder of the height at which nobles were placed. For a place such as Leithanien, such ambiguity was dangerous.
“Still, I’d like to avoid trouble for them if we can. You can’t protect everyone.” Ebenholz shot him a pained look, only to see Kreide had momentarily closed his eyes in whimsy as he hummed a tune. The comment stung, coming from him. He wondered if it really was Kreide saying it.
It had to be. It was too innocent of the misery either of them had faced.
Even the old fart knew better than to impersonate Kreide, of the consequences that would follow should that one precious memory of Ebenholz’s be defiled.
I warn you... don't think I'll hesitate to blow my own head off, if you dare imitate him one more time.
“Well, I ought to at least try,” Ebenholz whispered quietly, “after all, I can complain to you when I fail, can’t I?”
Kreide continued humming nonchalantly, as if everything was right with the world. “You can always complain to me,” Kreide responded, “I’d be worried if you didn’t. If you only did it when you failed, I wouldn’t hear from you as much.”
A shiver went down Ebenholz’s spine. “I was worried my voice might become annoying,” he replied with a smirk, turning impulsively into an alleyway.
“Mm, if I had to pick a voice to always listen to, I think I’d pick yours.” He looked kindly at Ebenholz, who nodded in understanding.
“Fair enough.”
“So, where are we going?” Kreide asked, slightly out of breath but not slowing down. The fact someone walked beside him, holding his hand, was far more important. Ebenholz paused, grinning mischievously.
“Surprise,” he muttered with a smirk, “but the tailor’s first.”
“Oh, right.” Kreide nodded excitedly. “The suit! I’d forgotten about that.”
“Perhaps that’s a gift,” Ebenholz responded. The comment held some emotional emptiness to it, like a canvas of spotless white after a dissatisfying drawing was erased. Kreide glanced at him curiously, but said nothing. He simply continued his guiltless tune.
“The sky is blue and fine,
The breeze lilts by in song….”
The pair had reached the tailor’s without much event. Ebenholz figured he had curved through enough alleys on the way that he’d managed to put some distance between him and his tail — though it would only buy them a few fleeting moments. That was all Ebenholz had ever had, anyway, so he was determined to make it count. They climbed the steps into the shop, doorbell chiming softly as they opened the door. The roar of the marketplace was dimmer here, enough so that he could make out the sound of his thumping heart and Kreide’s heavy breaths.
It was a fairly spacious area, patriotically decorated with a portrait of the Twin Empresses and matching black-and-white furnishings. Ebenholz let his hands finally part from Kreide to let the boy rest on the velvet lounge sofas while he approached the shop clerk. Discomfort filled the air, oozing out from the employee in spades. His fingers fidgeted nervously at the counter, and his deep red eyes looked through Ebenholz rather than at him — desperately trying to avoid staring at Kreide, and so darting their gaze everywhere around him. Ebenholz cleared his throat, trying to beckon his guise as the Graf Urtica to speak for him.
“Herr Tailor,” he stated, with a politeness to his tone that signified authority — an irrefusable demand for subservience in exchange for basic courteousness.
“Graf Urtica?” The response was phrased inquisitively, but it was much more a statement acknowledging his identity. It made Ebenholz strangely uncomfortable.
“I came in yesterday with my guest for a suit. I am here for its requisition.” He didn’t bother asking if the suit was done.
“Of course. Your guest can follow me to the fitting room, where we can make any final adjustments.”
Ebenholz shook his head. “I shall go with him and intimate you of any needs. You may come when required.”
The clerk hesitated, finally finding the courage to settle his eyes on Kreide.
“I can’t just—” he began, but he had said enough.
Ebenholz crossed his arms, his voice turning chilly. “Are you saying that a guest of the Graf Urtica is not to be trusted? I shall presume that if I were to bring one of Her Majesties the Kaiserin in recommendation of this shop, that you would ask to stay alone in the same fitting room as them despite my protests of its disrespect?”
The clerk immediately lowered his eyes, bowing his head in defeat.
“Very well, sir. Follow me this way.”
Motioning Kreide to join him, Ebenholz followed the clerk across the corridor, turning into the third door they passed. With a quick farewell, the clerk hurried back uneasily to his post, and Ebenholz turned to lock the door behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Kreide said softly, tipping his head sheepishly in apology.
“What do you have to apologise for?” Ebenholz said, though his voice still maintained a frosty ring to it, causing Kreide to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Ebenholz cleared his throat again and smiled, his voice lightening.
“Ah, I know you aren’t fond of your position. My presence forced your hand, probably.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It would’ve been ridiculous if he refused a basic request for privacy.”
Kreide simply laughed. “You still didn’t need to. It wouldn't have been a huge deal, really — the fact you got me a coat…”
“Mm, it might be for nothing if it doesn’t fit properly. Best not to thank me yet,” Ebenholz said, glancing at the coat. It existed in direct contrast to his — pearl white, and unadorned by the insignia that indicated so clearly that Ebenholz was a Graf. Indeed, it bore very little mark of Leithanian culture at all; in many ways, it seemed to be tailored for the future.
There’s so many things left for you to do.
“Well, I’ll find out then thank you again, then!” Kreide exclaimed, approaching the suit. It was neatly dressed up on a mannequin, with a single tailor’s chair sat beside it. The room was otherwise plain, but the mirrors on each wall endlessly reflected its contents far into the horizon. Kreide undid a few buttons on his shirt, then stared quizzically at the garments in front of him.
“I haven’t… worn anything like this before,” Kreide muttered incredulously, and Ebenholz grinned. In a rare display, colour rushed to his cheeks.
“I’ll help,” he said, moving to stand beside him.
By the time Ebenholz had finished undoing the endless set of buttons for the coat, waistcoat, and shirt underneath, Kreide had taken off his own plainclothes and folded them neatly on the tailor’s chair. Ebenholz turned over to gaze at Kreide, meeting their giddy smile with his own. Years of vagrancy had left Kreide worryingly thin, though having finally been able to eat well recently meant his frame was no longer skeletal. His eyes were weary, his hair was unkempt.
Yet all Ebenholz could think of was that he was beautiful. Extra words failed him, a rare occasion for the dark-haired Leithanian.
As his eyes slowly soak in the sight of Kreide, however, he slowly frowned. Originium crystals — the sign of an Infection — had grown noticeably out of Kreide’s chest, coursing up like a pulsing vein to his shoulder blade.
“Your Oripathy,” Ebenholz grumbled, face contorted into its usual scowl, “it's getting worse.” Kreide simply shrugs, shaking his head as if telling him not to worry.
This is stupid. Why is he trying to console me?
Ebenholz sighs. He should’ve known this would happen. Kreide’s condition always worsened when around the power of the Witch King — and as much as he had tried to hope otherwise, this dream was probably made by the remnants of that old fart still living in Ebenholz’s head.
If you really do get it, don’t weep for me Ebenholz.
Ebenholz draped a shirt around Kreide’s shoulders, pulling himself close as he did so until he was mere inches away. Kreide let out a shallow, heated breath, and Ebenholz’s thoughts flowed into a muddled vortex. He focuses on what he can see, the rosy blush on Kreide’s pale cheeks and the violet of his eyes reflected in his own. He focuses on what he can feel, the heat of Kreide’s skin as he buttons down his shirt.
Most of all, he focuses on what he can hear — their steady heartbeat, beating in almost musical synchrony against the backdrop of the sounds of daily life that permeated these four walls they had managed to claim for themselves.
“Eben…” Kreide breathlessly, and Ebenholz looked up at him while forcing a wry grin. They were so close, and he could feel the warmth of Kreide’s body. It was so tempting — so easy. Yet he simply stood there coolly, tucking in Kreide’s shirt nearly and buttoning his coat — the white-haired boy too flustered to stop him.
This isn’t about me, Ebenholz thought. If Kreide wouldn’t think about himself, then Ebenholz would think about him for him. He took a step back, observing the masterpiece as Kreide wriggled around in his new clothes. Clad in bright white, he was the direct antithesis of Ebenholz. Perhaps it was the fact Kreide was so unlike anything he saw in himself that he found so attractive.
“Thank you!” Kreide exclaimed, his face alight with joy.
“You’re too easily pleased,” Ebenholz replied, tapping his feet with mock disapproval.
“Mm. On the contrary, I think I’m the luckiest man alive,” he said, turning to look at himself in the mirror. Ebenholz’s eyes followed suit. “Didn’t you have a surprise for me?”
Ebenholz winced, painfully aware that their time was running out. Even though he knew it was an illusion, as he gazed into their endless reflections, for a moment he believed they could be forever.
It was so difficult to keep fools away from the chains they revered.
And yet he couldn’t help but agree, seeing them side by side, that perhaps he was the luckiest man alive. He turned to the door with a sigh, bemoaning they could not huddle backstage forever. The finale was due to begin, and they had to walk on stage to greet it.
Slowly, he responded.
“Mhm,” he said softly, nodding in sullen affirmation, “follow me.” Kreide slipped his hand onto his with a smile, a familiar tune bursting out of him.
“The river murmurs clear…”
The pair had returned to their winding journey through the Leithanien labyrinth, turning corners around random roads to reach an unspoken destination. Ebenholz wasn’t too concerned about getting lost — he knew that as long as he walked, he would reach his destination in the dreamscape. But the silence of his companion, who had stopped humming to catch his breath, troubled him. Indeed, the world itself had gone quiet — as if Kreide was its only life.
“Do you need to take a break?” Ebenholz whispered, stopping and turning towards him. Kreide hesitated.
“You’re trying to lose our tail, aren’t you?” Kreide asked, with a hint of concern.
“Ah, you noticed,” Ebenholz said matter–of-factly, seating Kreide on a staircase. He makes out a sigh of relief, but he isn’t quite sure if he heard it. “Only because you’re so worried.”
“Mm, well—” Kreide said in between breaths, then looked up at Ebenholz reluctantly. Ebenholz sighs.
“Well, I never could say no to you,” he mutters, pulling out his wand. Charges slowly dance around it, glowing with the latent power of Ebenholz’s honed Originium Arts.
Kreide’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, please don’t—” he began, but Ebenholz simply waved his hand and offers him a reassuring smile.
“Our dear Herr Tail probably didn’t get much sleep anyway,” Ebenholz retorted, “I’ll only knock him out, I promise.” Kreide nodded, leaning his back against the wall. Ebenholz silently counted in his head.
On the fifth count, he peered around the corner, letting a blast of Arts flash from the wand in his outstretched hand. The man following them crumpled immediately, collapsing into a grey blob without so much as a groan. Still, he felt unsettled. He hated using his Arts, and the glimpse he had caught of the man’s cruel scarlet eyes tied knots in his stomach. Nonetheless, when he saw Kreide helplessly reclined against the cold brick, a sense of satisfaction filled him.
I did the right thing, Kreide, he thought, gazing at the boy as if hoping he would read Ebenholz’s thoughts, I did it… for you. Doing the right thing was how he kept Kreide alive, after all. Even after all his failures.
“Done,” Ebenholz muttered, sheathing his wand.
“I should be able to keep up now,” Kreide said quietly, “as long as we go slowly.” Ebenholz nodded, leaning down to pick Kreide up. Placing Kreide’s hand around his shoulder, they stood up; Kreide rested his weight on Ebenholz, who instinctively pulled him closer. He could feel the Originium crystals growing on Kreide’s soft skin, digging into his chest from underneath the silken fabric.
“You should be careful,” Kreide muttered, “the crystals, they could…”
“Someone split my head in two to shove the Witch King’s voice into it,” Ebenholz responded drily, as if it didn’t matter to him at all, “same as you. If you can live with the burden of a couple of rocks, so can I.” Kreide didn’t have the strength to argue, and instead hummed to show that he enjoyed their walk together. It had stopped mattering to him as to where they went a while ago.
How long has it been since Kreide could lean on someone? The thought angered him, but there was a small comfort that this privilege was his alone. The next thought had no such silver lining.
…For how long did I curse my own position, refusing to let anyone lean on me?
“You’re cool,” Kreide said, in between lines, “it feels… nice.”
“Leithanien is the habitat of cold-blooded creatures.”
“No wonder being locked in the Spire away from the sun was so dreadful.” Ebenholz laughed at the comment. Coming from Kreide, it hardly even felt bitter.
“They didn’t even let me go near the fireplace, just in case I threw myself in,” he retorted, even more conscious of the burning heat radiating off Kreide. The building had had central heating, yet a fireplace was kept lit in the main hall to signify homeliness. Even if he wasn’t barred from getting near it, that knowledge alone was enough from making him want to get closer to the hearth.
“Did you like the one at my house, then?” Kreide asked. In truth, it was barely more than a few cinders with a chimney too small to even fully vent the smoke. But crouching at it, their hands around each other…
“Yeah. It was warm,” Ebenhoz replied, his sentence trailing off.
Like a summer breeze.
Like the Rhodes Island cafeteria whenever Bagpipe cooks. You’d love it there.
“Like you,” he finished, exhaling shakily. Ebenholz wondered if this is how Kreide wanted to spend his final moments — talking of sweet nothings like lovers do, like how the sunset reminded them of all the evenings they’d spent staring at it. Yet they had never had that time.
Ebenholz wondered if he shouldn’t have cried.
Silence enveloped the gaps in their conversation, heavy with all the words they had but never said. Slowly, stumbling, they arrived at the blacksmith’s — a plain, open building, the contents of its high-octane metalworking tools simply scattered about. Resting Kreide against the wall, he fumbled in his pocket for a coin.
“Is this your…?” Kreide asked weakly, and Ebenholz nodded.
“You had asked me for one thing, hadn’t you?” he replied, before clearing his throat and bellowing at the counter. “Shopkeeper!”
For a moment, the silence of the forge made him worry that no-one was there, but a burly man with short almond hair and ornate antlers came out to greet them. Even with his arrival, however, it was deathly still. Ebenholz noted the violent crimson that surrounded the man’s dark pupils and shuddered. He had tried to ignore it, but he knew full well it was a reminder how he would never escape that accursed voice trapped in his head — that even in his sleep, it still controlled his visions.
“I’d like you to drill a hole in this coin, right now. The price is irrelevant.” The usual authority he mustered faltered as desperation leaked into his voice, but the blacksmith simply looked past him, aghast. Ebenholz opened his mouth to lecture him, but stole a glance first — only for his heart to drop.
Instead of where he had left him, Kreide had sunken to the ground. Worst of all, Originium crystals had burst through his coat, erupting front he side of his ribs. Frantically, Ebenholz turned back to the blacksmith.
“What are you staring at? Is this the respect you show towards a Graf of the Kurfürsten?” The shopkeeper’s attention snapped back to him, but he was not quite as meek as the tailor’s clerk.
“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to escort your Infected guest outside first,” he said, before momentarily pausing. “For both our health, of course,” he quickly added, thinly veiling his contempt with false respect. Ebenholz laid his hands on the counter, leaning in with his voice turning into a low growl — quiet enough that it remained out of earshot for Kreide.
“Listen, I don’t know where you came under the delusion that you own this shop to tell me what to do inside it. The Kurfürsten own this shop. They own you. You’re no different from my Infected guest, except that you don’t have a Graf speaking to defend you. Do you understand?” A bitter taste filled Ebenholz’s mouth, and his knees buckled — moments away from giving in and leaving him on his knees, begging for the shopkeeper to listen. Luckily, the counter hid his moment of weakness, and fear won out where the shopkeeper’s sense of humanity had failed. He eyed the pair suspiciously once more, before accepting the coin.
“I’ll get to work, then,” he said, then left. Ebenholz stumbled backwards, before falling to the ground beside Kreide. The latter rested his head on Ebenholz’s lap, his face content.
“What did you say to him?” Kreide murmured, and Ebenholz scoffed.
“I asked him exceedingly nicely to consider the plight of an Infected in this land and to help two young men out of the pure kindness of hi—” Ebenholz didn’t need to finish the sentence for Kreide to chuckle.
“Would you be happier if you believed that?” Ebenholz continued. Kreide’s eyes were closed, so he let himself scowl miserably as he spoke.
“Yeah. Yeah I would,” he replied, still giggling. Somehow, Kreide’s face was still rife with joy. Ebenholz had always wondered how the white-haired boy managed to stay so optimistic in the dourness of Leithanien. Sometimes, when no-one was there, he’d make an indecipherable expression that told the tragedy of his being — but it would last only a moment. He’d simply look at his cello bow he got from his first tutor, or the signature he got from the composer who promised to let him play in his concert, and smile. It’s as if all the joy in the world was available simply from meeting people like them.
Then Ebenholz realised that being with Kreide made him feel like that too, and he thought if maybe the problem was with the people of Leithanien, with him. All Kreide did was find joy in the little things. His heart ached, to the point he could barely feel it beating.
“Kreide, do you ever think our lives were tragic?” Kreide had asked him that question once before — the last time they were just like this. Kreide took a moment, stuck in between life and death, slowly grappling for an answer.
“...no. Our lives had tragedy. But were they tragic, devoid of happiness and only cast to bring others to tears?” He took a shaky breath, then continued.
“I don’t think so. I’d like to think… I made others happy, as much as they made me.” Ebenholz brushed Kreide’s hair from his face, staring at it distantly — reminding himself how beautiful he was as he tried to make himself smile. Kreide opened his eyes, gazing at Ebenholz contentedly.
“You did,” Ebenholz whispered, afraid to raise his voice any higher lest he choke back tears.
“Ah, this must be so hard on you,” Kreide muttered. Ebenholz bit the inside of his lip until it bled, and his heart sank into his stomach. Or perhaps it was the Originium crystals that grew increasingly out of Kreide’s body puncturing his abdomen. Ebenholz didn’t care.
Why is he thinking about me?
“...thank you, Ebenholz,” he continued, and Ebenholz felt sick.
“D-don’t — the coat and cello were nothing. Money isn’t an issue.” Money. Ebenholz looked up, but there was no sign of the blacksmith.
“Then for… not crying,” he said, placing his frail hand against Ebenholz’s cheek, “so that I know… I didn’t make you sad. That we were both so, so lucky.” He took a deep breath, forcing out his last words.
“That even though the world had torn us apart and left us to die… we still found each other and made something good out of it. Something… worth remembering. I…” He choked, but continued on.
“Your token, I…”
Because he loves me.
“I couldn’t forget you if I tried, Kreide,” he managed quickly.
“Mm…” Kreide murmured, distant, “you always were the smarter one between us.”
And he’s only happy because he tries to think about those he loves.
“Nonsense. It’s because… you’ll be there with me. Whenever I do something kind… your memory will be alive. It’s not your fate to die here, so meaninglessly. No… you’ll be there when I fight against cruel fate, in every act of kindness…” Ebenholz stuttered, his words quickly turning from reassurance to needing it. He knew he had heard these words from Kreide before. He had already made this promise.
But surely Kreide wouldn’t mind if… he just needed it to hear it again?
“You’ll be there with me… right?” Kreide held on to him, but Ebenholz could slowly see the light in his eyes begin to fade.
“Of course. We…. we did it before, didn’t we? Beat fate. Even though…it must have been so lonely for you. So this time… I’ll be there. So when it gets difficult… you can complain to me. That it’s so hard making people happy. And I’ll tell you it’s ok… because I knew how good it was. The power your actions have.”
“You’re going to be so sick of my annoying voice.” Kreide laughed, but there was no sound. There was only silence.
“If there was only one voice… your eyes…”
He never finished. His hand felt limply by Ebenholz’s side, dragging away with it the last of his strength. Before Ebenholz could cry, however, a coin landed squarely on Kreide’s chest, a neat hole drilled through it.
Again, he had failed to give Kreide the only thing he had asked for.
Perhaps the blacksmith was looking at his pathetic self in pity. He didn’t dare check.
He squeezed his eyes shut so no tears could fall. He had always failed Kreide in life. At least, in death...
He tried humming that song Kreide so loved, as if he was simply sending his lover off to sleep. Yet there was only a heavy silence. Its weight crashed down on him, suffocating him until he could not make a sound.
“His heart was filled with…”
Ebenholz hated closing his eyes. It sharpened all his senses, and he felt himself being greeted by a familiar voice — plucking at his flesh as if it were a violin.
“Pathetic.”
“I know.”
As Ebenholz tried to force his eyes open, he found himself lying on one of the infirmary beds in Rhodes Island. This is the real world, where he had also failed Kreide. His head pounded, the colours of this world swimming before him, and he closed his eyes again.
“My disappointing, self-loathing descendant…”
“That would be me.”
“It would be me too, if I had failed everyone I loved. If you had been the one to accept me, perhaps Kreide might have lived the ordeal you could not rescue him from. ”
“...”
“Injustice has you indignant, yet you doubt the veracity of your anger. You hate yourself for being constantly defeated by your own shortcomings, but fail to give yourself in to someone not inept to take over for you.”
“Indeed.”
“Even though it would give you the peace you’ve always craved.”
“I presume you want to know why?”
“Do tell.”
“It isn’t about me any longer, you senile hag.”
“Hah…”
“There is someone I loved. Even if I cannot live for myself…”
“...”
“Then I can live for him.”
“Even if you can do nothing with that life?”
“He always loved the little things.”
“...”
“I’m not afraid of you anymore, old fart.”
The voice quietened down, and when he opened his eyes again to the world it was with the ability to perceive its vivid clarity. Sunlight filtered through the window, caressing him warmly.
“Are you listening, Kreide?,” he whispered, slowly sitting up in his bed. “I have a song I think you might like.” The world was quiet, and so he was sure — no matter where Kreide was, he would hear it.
“The Sky is blue and fine,
The Breeze lilts by in Song;
The River murmurs clear,
My Heart is filled with...
With...
Hope.”