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Chapter Text

Stepping out of the Church of The Fool, Melissa Moretti let out a gentle sigh, carding a gloved hand through her tidy hair.

She had come to pray earlier than usual today. The sun’s warm, golden glow was only now peeking through the horizon line, signaling the start of a new day. Casting her gaze towards that brilliant body of light, she silently admired its beauty, illuminating the Church’s quaint little garden—a personal project of one of the priests, she’d heard. She’d have to ask them what blooms those lovely white flowers were, some day.

Quietly, she continued on her walk, looking upon the flowery fields as she went. She wasn’t in a hurry, today—It was one of her rare days off from the Backlund University, a precious moment of peace. Normally, she would’ve spent such a day relaxing, waking up only when the sun had fully risen high into the sky, lazily tinkering with whatever her current project was or playing around with little Alice. Only when the day started to turn into night would she attend Church, accompanied by the rest of her family, before returning home and making her daily offerings. It had become a habit, of sorts, ever since… ever since they had changed faiths, a few years back. Even Lucy accompanied them, though she still believed in the Evernight Goddess.

A breeze blew by. Lifting a hand to secure her hat, Melissa let the wind embrace her as it passed, breathing in the scent of flowers, fresh and fragrant.

Hmmm, perhaps a garden wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. Benson, for one, would enjoy strolling through the lovely flowers whenever things got too much, a safe place to relax his overtaxed mind. Lucy, too, would probably enjoy tending to it in her free time. And Alice… well, Alice would probably have fun stomping through the delicately grown plants, ruining the pretty flowers as she rampaged about. She, herself, wouldn’t mind having something nice to look at when gazing out the window after sitting at her workbench for hours and hours on end…

Yes, that sounded rather nice, didn’t it?

Slowly, a smile bloomed on Melissa’s lips, soft and warm—until, until—

Until it froze.

Crouching in the vibrant flowers’ midst was a man—a simple man, an unremarkable man, an utterly average man. He wore a normal, typical suit; one any other half-well-to-do gentlemen in the Leon kingdom would wear. His face—half hidden under his hat and concealed by the sun’s blazing light rising up behind him—was completely unremarkable, and wouldn’t stand out as significant in any way amongst a vast crowd. In one hand, he held a simple cane; in the other, a fish.

A few steps away, hidden in a bed of Daffodils, a black cat lurked, eyeing the man and fish in his hand with marked suspicion. The man did not seem fazed by the cat’s misgivings, the small smile on his face unwavering. Patiently, he dangled the fish midair in a gloved hand, waving it back and forth in slow, steady motions.

Suddenly, the feline darted out from its hiding place to snatch the fish from the man’s hand, before slinking away. In the blink of an eye, the cat was gone, and only the man remained.

Melissa blinked rapidly. Her vision became blurred—because of the sun, of course. Really, the sun’s light was truly too bright, hindering her sight…

Chuckling wryly, the man shook his head. Slowly, he used the cane in his hand to help himself up, tipping back his half-top hat, allowing Melissa to see the face that had been half-hidden from her.

Not that such an insignificant thing would’ve—could’ve impaired her ability to recognize that man.

Calmly—too calm, too cool, too collected—the man turned to face the frozen girl, her eyes, once so very bright and sharp, now clouded and lost.

Klein Moretti smiled gently.

“Hello, Melissa,” he spoke, softly. His smile widened. “Did you miss me?”

Chapter Text

The piercing screech of a steam locomotive pulling into a platform resounded through the air, high and sharp, cutting over even the ceaseless sounds of the Land of Hope. The people loitering about the platform all looked up at its approach, a hundred eyes collectively beholding a behemoth of metallic black, a wonder of human civilization, billowing clouds of thick white steam trailing behind it. As the engine gradually rolled to a stop, its doors opened.

A flood of people flowed out. From one of the fancier carriages, a man with a full head of silver and profound wrinkles stepped out, surveying the busy Backlund station with deep blue eyes, a warm smile highlighting his once handsome features, now aged and worn. The look in his eyes remained the same, however, exhibiting the aura of a distinguished gentleman who had experienced the trials and vicissitudes of life; shaped, but not broken by the horrors he had witnessed. In one hand, he gripped a cane. In the other, he held onto suitcase.

From the opposite end of the steam locomotive, a younger—though not young—man also walked onto the platform. A pair of glasses and a well-shaven beard hid his scholarly countenance, giving him the air of an intellectual well versed in the ways of the world, gained through many weathered storms. There was a great kindness in his eyes despite that, something that many would consider naivety, but what he would personally call “humanity”.

Across a sea of faces, two pairs of eyes met in spite of all factors—be it Fate, circumstance or even time itself—connecting these two individuals from completely different worlds by pure “accident”.

Or was it?

Simultaneously, Dwayne Dantès and Sherlock Moriarty broke into identical smiles, so perfectly mirrored that none would be able to tell them apart even if placed side-by-side. In the next instant, their shared line of sight broke, and the two Avatars of the Lord of Mysteries drifted from the other, melting into the crowd, eyes locked ahead, seeking out their own Fate, no matter what that may mean and where that might lead.

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Pritz Harbour, midday.

Calls rang out for the passengers of the Laughing Aventurine, the final boarding call. Many people rushed forward at this announcement, parting tearfully with their friends and family or simply making a break for the majestic ship, be they adventurers seeking glory across the seas, merchants hoping to find fortunes in foreign lands, or merely nobles on vacation, searching for an exotic experience. Some even waved their tickets high in the air, as if fearful that the ship would depart before they could board.

The entire harbour was brimming with the sound of life, of humans from every walk of life shouting and laughing in discordant harmony, blending together a million presences and impressions into a single chaotic sea. Seagulls flew through the open sky above, while waves roamed across the azure sea below.

Just then, a lonesome figure took a calm step forward towards the Laughing Aventurine.

Wrapped in a black trench coat that whipped wildly about the wind, casting fevered shadows onto the ground, the man appeared to belong more in a timeless mural than an old, dusty harbour. Unlike the others, scurrying and hurrying about as another warning whistle sounded, he was utterly calm and entirely patient, as though time itself would wait for him before daring to tread onwards.

Perhaps it would.

The man nudged his gold-rimmed glasses, bringing to attention the coldness of his eyes, and the glint of madness hidden deep within. His features were sharp and refined, fixed in a mask of unwavering indifference. With an incongruous sense of calm, the solitary man continued his measured pace forward, one step at a time.

The first person who noticed him was rendered speechless, mouth falling agape. As though possessed, they turned to fervently whisper to the person next to them, gesturing wildly. Then gasps started to ring out from every crook and corner, spreading onwards and gaining speed. Whispers ran rampant. Soon, even the attention of people aboard the ship were caught by the unnatural wave of burgeoning and falling silence, and folks plastered themselves onto the ship’s rails to get a good look, before being shocked into stillness by the sight they had witnessed. A thousand pairs of eyes gradually locked onto the figure of man, who, as ever, calmly walked on.

“The Laughing Aventurine…” the man murmured softly, unheeding and uncaring of the attention being placed on him. Stopping a good distance away from the majestic ship, he gently tilted his head up to admire the vast vessel. For a moment, the image of another ship and another scene—not so dissimilar to the one surrounding him now—overlapped with the current present; real and within reach before his black-gloved fingers, and yet so very far away.

His eyes slowly narrowed in an emotion that could perhaps be called delight. The corners of his lips twitched unnaturally, curling upwards, settling into what one might consider a smile—if not for the trace of madness within, delighting in the chaotic fate that lay ahead.

Today, Gehrman joins the hunt.

With a slight smile that made a white seagull with a conspicuous black ring around its eye fall mid-fight and a hardened sailor faint in fright, Gehrman Sparrow boarded the Laughing Aventurine, his dark eyes locked onto a future only he could see, greedy and endlessly hungry for a taste of the humanity he had long missed.

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On an abandoned, uninhabited island.

Though perhaps once the site of an idyllic town, it was now deserted and left to the mercy of nature. At first glance, it seemed rather ordinary, if a little dusty and overgrown. The closer one looked, however, the more they would clearly, unequivocally understand that—

This place is wrong.

Houses, though empty of life and left unused for years and years, still had food and drinks laid out. Newspapers and books sat half-opened, abandoned mid-read. Clothes that had long dried still hung on their racks. In one of the gardens, an innocent shovel lay beside an unpotted plant, like its owner had set it aside before departing, leaving it all on its lonesome. It was almost as if, during their normal, day-to-day lives, the residents of the town had simply… vanished.

In the hidden corners of the deserted town, dark powers lurked. Forgotten ghosts and unheard stories lay in wait. Malice hid in the cracks of the stone, left to fester their resentment for decades without reprieve. Bizarre and horrifying, these powers yearned to be seen—to be heard. Ah, the melody of death they would sing! How sweet and delightful the town of puppets that had borne them once was. A paradise of lies, a grand stage made by and for a single man. This time around, it would be their turn to take centre stage. Thus, they waited and waited and waited, waiting for the conductor's call…

Amidst this scene, a singular individual sat near a neglected fountain, his long dark hair swaying in beat with the mild breeze. He was dressed in the simple grabs of a traveling magician, complete with a plumed hat decorated with vibrant feathers. Although he possessed an unremarkable face, his eyes were darker than any normal man’s should be, hiding within a deep and terrifying mystery. A smile adorned his lips, sorrowful and yet oh-so beautiful.

Merlin Hermes lifted his head to gaze silently at the vast sky. White clouds drifted by, framing the brightly burning sun. He looked at the brilliant star head-on, as if unafraid of being blinded by its unforgiving light, his dark eyes an abyss that drank in all radiance.

Slowly, so very slowly, Merlin Hermes raised his fingers aloft and made a wish to the sky—no, not the sky, uncaring and indifferent to those beneath its aegis, but a wish to himself.

“I wish for all the powers corrupting this place to disappear.”

And they did, silently and without a single scream or cry, helpless in the face of the Miracle Magician’s pious wish.

In the next instant, the sound of a pair of boots hitting the hard pavement resounded through the lonely town.

“Well then!” the lone man exclaimed cheerily, the smile on his face once more bright and joyful. His dark eyes were curved into half-crescents. Aloud, alone, he said to the empty square, “Time to grant some wishes.”

With that, the final Avatar of the Lord of Mysteries embarked on his own journey, different from every other shade of himself and yet echoing their essence with his every step all the same. After all, they were all walking—or, rather, retracing the path they had once tread oh-so long ago, seeking the meaning of life and humanity anew.

Chapter Text

“I, Klein Moretti, swear to never lie, misdirect, or hide important matters—such as joining the mysterious world, faking my death, becoming a deity, et cetera—from my great, intelligent and wonderful siblings—that is, Benson and Melissa Moretti—ever again,” Klein recited seriously, facing the sacred emblem of The Fool, his right hand solemnly clasped over his heart. In his left hand, a note peeked out, filled to the brim with shaky, nigh illegible handwriting—and in certain spots, conspicuous tear splotches.

Frigid, deathly silence greeted him.

Klein smiled helplessly. “And until my great, beloved siblings allow it, I vow not to leave their side. Cross my heart and hope to die, if I break this vow, stick a thousand needles in my eye.”

There was no reply.

He paused, longing to turn around to face them, to see them—but he’d promised not to. Not until they’d forgiven him.

It was the least he could do. Even if he had to stand here, facing his own sacred emblem for the rest of his wretched life—

He’d do it, if it meant that, one day, perhaps in a fur flung, distant future, he would be forgiven.

“...I’m sorry,” Klein said softly, head bowed, eyes downcast. His voice shook minutely, even under his Clown powers. How pathetic. Through his blurry vision, he stared at the note crumpled between his hands, a defeated smile gradually coming to shape on his face. Slowly, he closed his eyes and whispered, “Forgive me, please.”

The silence stretched on. Then—

“Mm!” a surprised sound slipped between Klein’s lips as something warm and small tackled his back, holding him tight with surprising strength. A beat passed, then another. Gradually, the tension melted from Klein’s body, and, unbidden, a tear slipped down his cheek, flowing past his suddenly blinding smile.

“...I suppose I’ll forgive you,” a feminine voice conceded haughtily, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how choked and relieved it sounded. “Since you look so pathetic. But only this once!” The arms wrapped around Klein tightened further. And though Klein struggled to breathe from the force of it, he merely laughed aloud, bright and infectious.

“Never again, ok?” the muffled voice entreated once again. What was presumably the girl’s—What was presumably Melissa’s head buried itself deeper into Klein’s back, like a little squirrel trying to burrow its way into the ground, away from the cold and into the warmth.

“Never again,” Klein promised softly, holding himself still, letting his sister hug him as she liked, even as her arms threatened to choke the air out of his fragile lungs and tears leaked out of his eyes. Seers weren’t built for bear-hugs, it seemed

From a little ways away, a wet chuckled resounded. “Oh well. Since Melissa’s finally given in, I suppose I have no more excuses.” Another great weight enveloped him from behind. Benson’s voice, too, was a touch too hoarse, deeper than Klein had ever heard it before. “If you’re really sorry, I have nothing left to say. Just—stay here with us for a while. Promise?”

“Mmn,” Klein agreed, blinking rapidly, “I promise.”

Then, hesitantly, slowly, he turned around, returning his siblings’ embrace with one of his own.

“...I’m back, Melissa, Benson,” Klein said.

“...Welcome home, Klein,” Benson and Melisa replied in unison, and together, the Moretti’s smiled.

Chapter Text

Unit 17 Minsk Street, Cherwood Borough, Backlund.

As “Sherlock Moriarty,” or rather, Klein Moretti pulled the doorbell, he glanced up with a smile just in time to see a palm-sized mechanical bird popping out from above the door, cuckoo!-ing incessantly. He moved a step back, patient, listening quietly as he heard the sounds within the house still. Then, a pair of quiet footsteps made their way towards the door, tapping rhythmically on the carpeted floor.

As the footsteps neared, the image of Klein’s greeter surfaced in his mind—A lady with blond hair and blue eyes. Though once beautiful, her youth had now faded and only hints of it remained. The proud and youthful face that remained in his memory was wiped away, replaced by a tired woman weighed down by regret. Still, she retained some of her old liveliness and hope, her eyes still reflecting that world of beauty, glimmering with an unyielding light.

A spark of surprise ran through Klein. Mrs. Sammer herself? I thought a maid would greet me… A faint sense of gloom washed over his heart. It appears that time has not been kind to all of us.

The door opened. A pair of blue eyes were all that met the smiling Klein, the lady’s features otherwise hidden behind a simple yellow fan.

“May I help you?” Stelyn Sammer, Klein’s former landlord during his time as Sherlock Moriarty, asked politely, evidently not recognizing him.

Klein bowed slightly. “Mrs. Sammers, it is Sherlock Moriarty, a former tenant of yours, over there on Unit 15.” He straightened up, smiling. A teasing lilt entered his voice. “I hope you haven’t forgotten me.”

For a moment, Mrs. Sammer stood still, brows slightly furrowed. Then, recognition bloomed in her eyes. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “Detective Moriarty, correct? Yes, I remember.” She lowered her fan, curiosity lighting up her face. “It’s been so long… Didn’t you say that you were taking a short vacation—No, a trip home to… to…”

Klein chuckled. “So it seems that I wasn’t forgotten after all,” he said in good humour. He inclined his head. “Perhaps we should talk inside?”

Blinking, Mrs. Sammer snapped back. “Right—Yes, so very sorry, let’s talk inside,” she said, smiling slightly, leading the way in while Klein followed behind.

“Tea?” she asked as they entered the living room, gesturing for him to sit down. Klein gazed around, noting the decreased number of paintings and the slight weariness of the furnishings.

“No, it’s fine,” he decided, gracefully seating himself on the sofa. “But thank you for the offer.”

Opposite him, Mrs. Sammer did the same. “Good evening, Mr. Moriarty,” she said, a polite smile on her face, smoothening down her skirt as she sat. Though she hid it well, he could sense her nervousness, awkwardness… and also a tinge of curiosity.

Ever the gossip, Klein thought, amused.

“Good evening, Mrs. Sammer,” he returned. “I’m sure you’re quite curious about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing…” he saw her perk up, “...but I’m sure that such boring matters can be discussed later.”

Mrs. Sammer deflated visibly.

Klein stifled an impolite snort. With a hint of theatrical aplomb, he winked. “After all, we will become neighbours once more soon enough, if you are not opposed. I’m certain that we shall have many chances to chat in the future.”

At that, the lady blinked, tilting her head to the side and laying a palm on her cheek. “Goodness, your detective prowess has not diminished at all, Mr. Moriarty,” she praised, eyes sparkling. “How did you know that the latest resident of Unit 15 just moved out?”

Klein chuckled mysteriously. It was his signature laugh, honed and refined after countless years of shameless lying and bullshitting. “Just some simple deductions, Mrs. Sammer, just some simple deductions. It was quite elementary, really,” he demurred, the very picture of humility, preening slightly at her awe.

It was through divination, of course. He hadn’t even passed Unit 15 on his way here, much less having deduced anything.

Mrs. Sammer still clapped her hands appreciatively nonetheless, her smile as bright as a dandelion in bloom as she looked at him, if a little wilted at the edges. “Then, we are neighbors once more, Mr. Moriarty! I can’t wait to hear about your adventures,” she tittered.

Then—

“You know, I read one of Madam Fors Wall’s detective novels a while back,” Mrs. Sammer said innocently, while Klein froze as if struck by divine lighting. “And even some of that popular Adventurer series, though I’m only half-way through the second volume. My daughter, though, she’s quite positively obsessed with it. Why, I’ve never seen her so enamoured by anything before!” The soft, loving smile on her face only caused Klein’s horror to grow.

“She’ll be so excited to hear that the great detective next door she liked to ask about is back. I’m sure your stories will be wonderful, Mr. Moriarty. Oh, I know!—Won’t you join us for a small dinner party this Thursday? My little girl will be over the moon, I just know it!” Mrs. Sammar asked, her smile fit to blind even a Lord of Mysteries.

“...Yes. Of course, Mrs. Sammer,” was all Klein could say. His smile was oddly stiff, and his eyes were hollow. “I will be there.”

And thus Klein Moretti’s fate was sealed.

Chapter Text

Hmmm, a bit too salty, he declared his verdict, looking down at the salted fish flopped dead on his plate with a critic’s eye. The meat itself is fresh and well-cooked, but the salt is just too overpowering… Something sweet or sour to wash away the saltiness would make it just right. At that thought, Klein, donning Gehrman Sparrow’s cold and cutting face, reached out for the small glass of lemonade by his side, expression morphing into one of satisfaction as he savoured the sour drink. Yes, that’s perfect. Now, for the side dishes…

“May I sit with you, Gehrman Sparrow?” a calm voice asked, its aura of authority and arrogance poorly hidden behind a mask of politeness. At the seemingly innocent request, the low, muted whispering that had enveloped the diner quietened for a moment, then abruptly exploded with more vigor than ever before.

“Saying someone’s full name is a rude thing to do, Admiral,” Klein replied absently, not lifting up his head. Mmm, the mashed potatoes are a bit dry. The sauce is also far too thick…

The voice paused. “Apologies.”

“Apology accepted,” he replied emotionlessly, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. Placing it down, Klein looked up to see a tightly coiled man of strict discipline, his face so serious as to be severe. His black hair was neatly combed back, completing the impression. “You may sit with me, Admiral Amyrius.”

Though the man—or rather, Admiral Amyrius Rieveldt, whom Klein had once impersonated—subtly raised an eyebrow, he did not argue.

“Do you have any business with me, Admiral? A commission, perhaps. Or were you sent to keep an eye on me?” Klein struck the first blow, stabbing the fish on his plate with a knife. A hazy fog had already enveloped them, concealing their conversion from prying ears. His tone remained as flat and cold as ever. “I sincerely hope not. Has the Church of The Fool not been the kingdom’s trustworthy allies? My Lord will be sad to hear that you distrust us so.”

Yes, I’m very sad that you sent someone to monitor me. I just want to travel, eat nice food, and maybe kill a few pirates after dessert! Is that too much for a man to ask for? Bringing a piece of fish to his lips, Klein chewed in thoughtful silence after his rant. Sigh, what I wouldn’t do for some rice right now… If only I were alone, then I could summon some from the Historical Void.

“Gehrman” glanced at Admiral Amyrius, eyes cold. Whatever you want to say, hurry up!

Opposite him, the Admiral brows furrowed slightly. “It was not our intention to make you feel slighted. Though I was asked to keep an eye on you, I was also strictly ordered not to meddle in your affairs.” He looked Klein dead in the eyes, unyielding blue into emotionless black. “And we were indeed right to have been concerned.”

Klein stared the Law Weaver, silently urging the man to continue.

And he did. Amyrius’ authoritative voice rang out, though thanks to the screening, it reached only Klein’s ears. “Already, a group of people have begun to engage in a drinking game, where the winner will receive the honor of being the first to receive your autograph. More and more people are joining in as we speak.”

Klein glanced outside, at the sun that was just setting. Drinking already? Good luck, I suppose.

“Then, there are the devotees of the Fool,” the Admiral continued. “At least three believers of your deity have been praying non-stop ever since this ship set sail. They are intent on following you on your presumed ‘holy pilgrimage,’ and”—Admiral Amyrius glanced at some place behind Klein, gaze hardening—“And it seems that they have drawn in another pitiful fool.”

And what does The Fool’s increased workload have to do with me, Gehrman Sparrow? Klein thought simply, wishing for some soy sauce to magically appear.

Seeing that his words had no effect on the great adventurer, Amyrius pulled out his final card. “A small-time pirate has already jumped off board and swam back to Pritz Harbour, fearful for his life.”

The Admiral leaned forward, his dominating aura increasing in pressure. Klein shrugged it off like an axolotl shaking off a detached limb. “I think this very clearly illustrates my point. Though you may not carry any ill will, your very presence generates chaos in its wake,” the Law Weaver warned gravely, tone dark.

“I see,” Klein said indifferently. He took another bite of the salted fish, chewing slowly.

After an unsuccessful minute of trying to get Klein’s attention, the Admiral leaned back in his seat, slumping ever so slightly. If he were a touch less discipled, he might’ve even sighed.

“...We understand that you cannot control how other people react to you—At least, not without using dramatic means,” Amyrius paused, as if to wait for the words to sink into his fellow conversationalist’s brain. It did, in fact, not. “...But we hope that you can be a little more mindful of the effect your mere presence has on others. That is all.”

“I see,” Klein echoed once more. He placed his utensils down and grabbed a nearby menu, passing it to Amyrius, who reacted in surprise—well, relatively. Klein doubted that anyone but a Clown or Spectator would’ve noticed.

At the Admiral’s questioning look, he succinctly stated, “You asked if you could sit with me. This implies a meal, Admiral.” Klein took a refreshing sip of lemonade, letting the sour liquid wash away the fish’s saltiness. His eyes fell close. “I’m in a good mood, so it’ll be on me.”

Amyrius studied Gehrman Sparrow’s face, as if searching for some hidden trick or nasty scheme, though he was met with only a solid brick wall.

“...You’re different than I remembered,” Admiral Amyrius finally said, after having gleaned no information from Gehrman’s impassive, immovable mask of stone. He sounded almost thoughtful.

Klein picked at the mashed potatoes. “People change, Admiral,” he replied coolly.

“Indeed.” The Admiral picked up the menu, stern blue eyes scanning over it indifferently. Abruptly, he said, “Sequence 6 of the Seer pathway—controlled by the Church of The Fool—is called Faceless.”

Glancing at his hazy reflection in the spoon, Klein’s sharp features showed no reaction. “I know.”

…

“I think I’ll have the salted fish and…” Amyrius’ gaze reached the bottom of the menu. “And the roasted mushrooms.”

A shiver went up Klein’s spine.

…You know what, never mind, this meal isn’t my treat anymore!! “Gehrman”’s face remained unchanged. Would you perhaps consider changing tables? Maybe over there, a couple meters away from me.

He said nothing, of course.

In short order, the Admiral’s food arrived. The server who delivered the meal oscillated wildly between awe and horror, at once radiating both the childish aura of a 10-year old boy meeting their celebrity crush and the fright of a 30-year-old man facing down a gigantic man-eating shark, his round cheeks somehow both deathly white and burning crimson at the same time. Klein, like he did everyone else on this ship, ignored him.

In silence, they both finished their meals. Klein ordered dessert—a simple toast spread with an uninspired helping of jam—while Admiral Amyrius savoured the salted fish, a mildly approving look on his usually stoic face.

As Klein took his final bite of the bland toast, Amyrius spoke again.

“When I was 18, the day before I drank my first potion, my father, the late Earl Rieveldt, pulled me aside for a talk.” The Law Weaver’s face was calm, and his voice steady. “He told me of the ‘acting method,’ and warned me against losing sight of myself because of it.”

“‘Never forget that you’re only acting,’” Klein quoted softly. Admiral Amyrius’ face showed a touch of surprise before clearing. He nodded.

“Yes. It was a popular saying in the 4th Epoch, or so my father said.” Admiral Amyrius looked out at the vast sea before them, stretching on and on and on, the Pritz Harbour they had departed from barely even a dot on the horizon line. “At times, masks are necessary things, but they cannot become the true face itself, lest you be met with a fate worse than death—losing sight of yourself, and thus, losing control.”

Amyrius glanced back at the great adventurer before him, who was also staring out into the azure sea and beyond. The soft, salty breeze caressed his face. As ever, behind his glinting gold-rimmed glasses, the great adventurer’s dark eyes were utterly emotionless, the truth and depth of his feelings undecipherable and unfathomable to any mortal that dared to gaze into its depths—Perhaps one would even come to assume that this cold, cutting man held no feelings at all: a pure bundle of divinity without an ounce of humanity.

But Admiral Amyrius was no mortal, and he knew well what it felt like to see oneself as a monster. He saw it every time he looked into the mirror, after all.

The silence stretched on, from seconds into minutes, and, foreseeing no response, the Admiral stood up, prepared to take his leave.

“Thank you for the—”

“I see,” Klein interrupted, echoing his earlier words. He turned back to face Amyrius, whose eyes widened fractionally, because, because—

Because there was some quality—some faint emotion, perhaps it was the angle of his lips or a trick of the fading light—that made the great adventurer's slight smile so very… human. Kind, even, one could say.

“May your voyage be fulfilling, Admiral Amyrius,” Klein offered, a startling note of sincerity in his voice. He counted a few pounds for their meal, put on his hat, and turned his back to the silently staring Admiral. “Thank you for sharing this meal with me.

“Farewell, for now. May we meet again.”

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The next day.

As the sun rose, dying the blue waves a molten gold, Klein got ready for an early morning walk, dressed in his favourite trench coat. As ever, a calm expression adorned his face, though an odd softness seemed to be present in the slight curl of his lips, lingering at the corners of his eyes. In a good mood, he absently played with a gold coin, savouring the feel of it between his fingers, on the verge of humming aloud to himself. Stifling a smile, he pushed open his cabin door.

Then, he was ambushed.

“Y—y—your Excellency, G-Gehrman Sparrow!” an unnaturally shrill voice called out to him, belonging to a young man no older than 20, his youthful face flushed with an unnerving red. His gray pupils were… there was no other way to say it—they were dilated, brimming with an almost uncontainable joy unlike anything Klein had ever seen.

A sense of dread permeated Klein, flowing from the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes. Following his spiritual intuition, his gaze fell onto the book held tightly within the young man’s grasp:

The Adventurer 7: Admiral of Blood, Senor.

…Maybe I really should’ve been more mindful of these people, Klein thought, belatedly.

With a trembling smile, the young man thrust the book into Klein’s impassive face, his wide eyes sparkling like a piece of crystal in the sunlight. Then, he bowed deeply, his back almost parallel to the floor.

“C-could you perhaps—perhaps sign this book for us!?” he asked, his high-pitched tone ringing incessantly in Klein’s ears.

…Us?

Indeed. Behind the young man, there were at least a dozen men and women, all looking at him with bright, blinding eyes—and that was only within his immediate sight. No doubt, if he were to activate his Spirit Body Threads vision, he would see many more people, all waiting in line to be the next to receive the great adventurer’s autograph.

Standing by the threshold, Klein was utterly silent, his eyes empty of all emotion. Then, he sighed, raising his fingers.

Snap!

Gehrman Sparrow then stepped back into his cabin and firmly closed the door.

…

The brave young man who had been first in line was struck speechless, his mouth hanging open. Behind him, the other passengers watched on with wide eyes, unable to make a single sound. Then, collectively, they sighed and slumped in disappointment. They shot worried looks at each other, as if to ask: What do we do?

“Ah?” the young man suddenly exclaimed, drawing the attention of his fellow fans. He did not—was not able to answer their queries, however, too busy staring, shell-shocked, at the book in his hands.

On the vibrant cover, the words Gehrman Sparrow were written, the tyrian-purple text shining with a subtle silver light. Every stroke was neat, beautiful, and very, very real, the young man discovered, running a trembling thumb over the words that had mysteriously appeared.

Exclamations of surprise and gasps of shock rang down the line as people inspected their own copies of The Adventurer, shaken by the innocent miracle that had suddenly occurred. A muted “Praise be to you, Mr. Fool! Praise be to you, Gehrman Sparrow, great Angel of Redemption!” rang out distantly, echoed by many. In no time at all, it caught on, and soon the entire ship was reverberating with praise for the Angel of Redemption, terrifying and startling a seagull with a black ring around its right eye into flight.

(In a distant cabin, Admiral Amyrius Rieveldt pressed a fist to his brow, fighting a growing headache.)

Sequestered safely behind his cabin door, Mr. Fool, suddenly bombarded by a flurry of prayers, let out another sigh—though of relief or fear, he could not say.

Chapter Text

The first thing it felt was a sense of horror.

Everything was incorrect—It was all at once too hot and too cold, concepts it had known intellectually, but had not truly understood. Those things moved weirdly, unlike anything it had ever known, too long and lanky, too mired in meat and bones. It felt too soft, too fleshy; fragile, as though it would break at the slightest drop. There was simply too much to process, too many things to feel, too many new things to understand—

Then, all those insignificant thoughts fell away.

“Arrodes,” a voice called. It was unfamiliar—older, more aged, more worn that it had once been—but nonetheless, it was unmistakably him.

A burning Pillar radiating warmth like a hearth and kindness like a messiah reached out and held its—his—hand, offering no more words, but simply silent support.

Great Master! it—He tried to say aloud, but was stymied, its intent not crossing through as it always had. The particles in the air did not tremble with a mere thought, and he tried to move his lips as he had observed humans do—But then how did sounds come out?

How, Arrodes wondered as it opened and closed its weird, fleshy mouth, do humans do this every day? Sigh, as expected of Great Master—only he could understand how to properly navigate this confusing and inefficient form. Praise The Fool!

“I can sense you praying, Arrodes,” Great Master spoke, a note of amusement within his voice. “Having trouble? Let’s take this one step at a time, then.”

Through the Spirit World, Arrodes could sense that Great Master had closed his eyes. Suddenly, all the distracting, superfluous sensations faded away, leaving behind only the impression of a pair of eyes, closed shut.

Ahhh? Ah! Though initially confused, Arrodes swiftly understood—Is Great Master sharing his senses with me? Am I going to learn how to open my eyes by feeling Great Master do so!? How wonderful, how brilliant! Praise the Great Master!!

“Calm down, Arrodes.”

Y-yes, Great Master, right away!!

“You’re not calming down at all…”

How could he!? Arrodes felt like it was going to burst from the anticipation. I! Am! Sharing Great Master’s senses!!

Great Master laughed again. “Ok, ok, I’ll get this over with so you don’t implode from the excitement. Ready?”

YES! Arrodes thought, loudly. If it were in its original mirror form, sparks of gold would’ve been flying through the air, while shimmering silver lights would’ve formed words praising The Fool’s brilliance. And though Arrodes did not physically speak, its—his intent still reached the Lord of Mysteries through the Spirit World, who smiled fondly at his loyal servant’s excitement.

Then, Klein opened his eyes.

And in the next second, so did Arrodes—the human Arrodes, his charming face adorned with a pair of mirror-like eyes, opened wide, framed with hanging locks of silver. All at once, the senses that had been shut off flooded the mirror in human form, though it—he—Arrodes did not have a single thought to spare for it all.

The world is so different, and yet still so beautiful like this, Arrodes thought, wistful, intently studying the ceiling with overwhelming enthusiasm. So this is the world as Great Master sees it. I…

Without any conscious effort applied, Arrodes’ lips curved upwards into a brilliant smile.

…I’m so happy I get to see the world he so loves, just the way it appears to him.

From beside Arrodes, a gentle voice called out, and he turned, facing Great Master with his newly open eyes. He watched on, fascinated, as the muscles on Great Master’s currently aged face shifted slowly to form an affectionate smile.

“Good morning, Arrodes,” he said, warm and soft and kind.

Arrodes beamed bright, the light of its silver eyes so blinding that even the sun’s rays could not compare.

“Good morning, Great Master!”

Chapter Text

“Oh? Brother, brother, what’s that?” a soft, melodic voice called out, brimming with innocent curiosity. It belonged to a woman in a hooded classical robe, her delicate features concealed beneath an impenetrable shadow. Her long, silky black hair draped down over her shoulders, seemingly glimmering with the light of the stars.

“Hm?” another voice, distinctly male, sounded. The owner of the voice, who possessed a youthful face but had streaks of white hair, followed his sister’s line of sight, a tinge of interest in his normally emotionless face… which quickly disappeared. “...Hm. It’s nothing good, I’m sure. Melantha, let’s go before—”

“My, my! Do I spot a pair of esteemed customers?”

“—Before… we’re… noticed…” the male voice from before finished, trailing off. He heaved a tired sigh. Then, all trace of emotion vanished from his—no, His face. With an eerie blankness, the man—Antigonus—turned towards the newcomer, bowing His head slightly.

“My Lord,” He said, sounding almost bored.

The recipient laughed as though he’d just heard the funniest joke in his life. “Why, whatever are you talking about? This humble one is merely a drifting, wandering magician,” the self-proclaimed “wandering magician” declared with a conspiratorial wink. His dark hair reached down to his shoulders, framing his unremarkable face. Grinning at them, he leaned lazily on an odd piece of machinery, his dark eyes dancing with amusement and something… darker. The odd man bowed to them both, a flourish to his every movement. “Merlin Hermes, at your service.”

Antigonus did not deign to reply, maintaining His stony silence, internally hoping that, if He stayed still long enough, the man would eventually get bored and go away. Melantha, though clearly curious, trusted Her brother’s judgment and opted to stay quiet.

Seeing that his theatrics were greeted with disinterest, the magician—Merlin—shook his head, sighing dramatically. “What hard customers I have,” he bemoaned, pulling a pitiful face, as if their frigid silence evoked untold amounts of sorrow within him. Antigonus did not so much as blink.

The two stared at each other silently.

Then, Merlin’s sadness vanished like morning dew come the day. The magician smiled wide, tapping the contraption beside him with a plumed hat that had appeared out of thin air. “Well, won’t you at least stay long enough to hear my sales pitch?” he requested cheerily, rolling back and forth on the heels of his feet.

There was no reply. Overhead, an owl hooted.

“Well, you see, this funny fellow is called the ‘Fully Automatic Wishing Machine’,” Merlin introduced, as if anyone had asked. His smile turned sly, though Antigonus doubted anyone else would’ve noticed—they might’ve even mistaken it for gentleness, Father Forgive. “Simply throw in a penny, offer a wish, and it shall come true. You only get three wishes, of course.”

“Really?” Melantha suddenly asked, placing a fair hand on Her cheek. She turned towards Antigonus, Her midnight-black hair swaying in tune to Her every graceful movement. “Its powers are a lot like yours, Anti. It’s from the same pathway, then?” She scrutinized the so-called “Fully Automatic Wishing Machine” with heightened interest.

“...Yes. However, it is not the machine that possesses the power.” The former Half-Fool’s line of sight was still locked unerringly on the Miracle Magician, who was openly smiling a merry smile.

Merlin’s dark eyes wandered to Melantha, who quietly studied the magician in turn. “You are Sir Antigonus’ esteemed sister, then? As beautiful as I imagine you’d be, my lady,” he praised effusively, though both siblings could tell that it rang hollow. What, after all, did beauty mean to one such as he? “May I have the honor of your acquaintance?”

Antigonus surpressed a snort. “No.”

Not at all bothered, Merlin grinned widely. “How cruel! I know you love your sister dearly, but there’s no need to be afraid of little old me.” The magician’s narrowed eyes twinkled. “I don’t bite,” he said, in that tone of expert amusement, as if sharing a joke.

Melantha, who approached the world with earnest interest, tilted Her hooded head to the side. “Why though, Anti?” She asked curiously, blinking beneath her hood. While Her little brother could not be called kind, (at least to strangers. He was always spoiling Her, She knew well) She had also never seen Him so on guard with… so afraid of someone before.

Even if Antigonus could ignore Merlin with an icy indifference and not feel a single prick to His heart, how could He do the same to His beloved sister? Antigonus’ face softened. “Because this man is dangerous, sister. He is extremely powerful, cunning, and shady. The embodiment of deceit itself. He is also friends with that traitorous, hateful… I mean, with the Goddess. So, he is not to be trusted.”

Merlin raised a fine eyebrow.

“I see.” Melantha nodded in understanding, gently clasping Her hands over Her chest, Her dulcet tones were as earnest and sincere as ever. “So He is the Scum of The Earth, vile and dirty, not to be trusted no matter the circumstance?”

“So cold! So cruel!” Merlin made a dramatic gesture, as if he were on the verge of fainting from the indignity of it all. “I see that you possess not only the innocence of a child, but also the cruelty of one.” The magician sighed. “You are undoubtedly Antigonus’ brother, Lady Melantha.”

At that, Melantha brightened visibly, puffing up in pride. By her side, Antigonus snorted quietly but derisively as if to say: was there ever any doubt?

“Also, please call me ‘he’ and not ‘He’. I am a simple wandering magician, drifting helplessly along the winding River of Fate. I am no one special at all.”

“Hmmm. I don’t care,” came Antigonus’ bored reply. Melantha gracefully yawned.

Merlin sighed again, and for the first time, seemed genuinely tired. “So rude,” he lamented, shaking his head. “So very rude.”

Neither sibling paid him any mind.

Glancing back and forth between the stony Antigonus standing at her side and the Scum of The Earth before Her, shrouded in shadow, Melantha observed the latter with a piercing eye beneath her hood.

Of all the people, Angels, and Gods Her brother than ever warned Her about, He had only ever expressed a genuine fear for 4 individuals: The self-proclaimed Creator’s two sons, Amon and Adam, His fellow nobles in the 4th Epoch; Amanises, The Evernight Goddess, the traitor who had, again and again, destroyed their home and taken away their happiness; and finally….

…The Lord of Mysteries, the pinnacle existence of the Door, Error and Fool pathways, of which the lattermost Antigonus Himself belonged to. A Pillar of the Universe, dangerous beyond comprehension, the embodiment of deceit made flesh. If He wished Them harm, there would be nothing Her beloved brother could do. And She—who had lost Her life, lost Her memory, who had nothing left but Her darling little brother—would be even more than useless. If the Lord of Mysteries desired it, They would simply die, unloved, unremembered, unmourned.

Gently lowering Her head, Melantha murmured softly, “But…”

Antigonus, ever attentive, prompted, “But?”

Hearing Her dear brother’s voice, Melantha lifted Her Head. Even through the lightless shadow concealing Her face, one could see—no, feel Her smile, bright, loving and sincere.

“But you’d still protect me no matter what, with everything you have, even against him, whom you so fear.” She reached out to hold Antigonus’ hand. “Right, brother?”

For the first time since Merlin appeared, Antigonus’ mask of stone crumbled. His eyes, always filled with love when gazing at Her, crinkled at the edges. Antigonus smiled. “Yes. No matter what, Mel.”

The siblings offered each other a smile, drawn from a deep well of sincerity. Even should the world be torn asunder, should the stars Themselves descend, should all that they once knew be turned upside down, they would still have each other, ‘til the very end.

Leisurely leaning on the Fully Automatic Wishing Machine, “Merlin” offered no words, but only a wistful smile. If it also contained any measure of sadness, however, there was no one there who would bother to notice or care. Those who would’ve had already long faded into dust, after all. And so, he merely closed his eyes, feeling the shifting wind blow by.

After a while, feeling that the siblings' reaffirmation of love and trust had gone on long enough, Merlin—or rather, Klein Moretti, clapped his hands together loudly.

That swiftly drew the siblings’ attention, and also their ire, but Klein merely smiled cheerily. “So!” he chirped. “Is there anything you’d like to wish for?”

Antigonus was one step away from a rude, full-body snort. “No. We have no need for your wishes, Mr. Hermes,” He stated without an ounce of doubt, decisively turning to leave. The ancient Angel’s head was head high, eyes fixed forever ahead. At His side, Melantha hid a smile and moved to follow Her brother, the hem of Her dark cloak trailing behind Her.

Klein heaved a quiet, almost silent, sigh, before laughing aloud. “Fair enough,” he acquiesced, shrugging as if to say, There's nothing I can do.

With a casual snap of his fingers, the Fully Automatic Wishing Machine disappeared. Rolling a golden coin between his agile fingers, Klein absently decided on his next destination. A moment before he departed, however, he glanced back at the two people whom he had only ever known as Antigonus, the angelic ancestor of an ancient family and possessor of the Fool Uniqueness, and Melantha, The Mother of the Sky, the descent vessel of the Evernight Goddess.

Staring at the departing siblings' backs, however, he remarked quietly, “But you have my blessings nonetheless. Safe travels, Antigonus, Melantha.”

Then, he silently vanished as if he had never been.

Chapter Text

He stood alone before a grave, a grave marked with the words: Dunn Smith, the true guardian, the most trusted partner, the Captain forever. An expression of profound grief twisted his face, and a thousand mournful wails echoed in his heart.

But was that right?

“He” also stood, cities away, before the grave of Daly Simone, laying down a bouquet of white carnations. In Backlund, “he” walked among the tombs of old friends, of people whom “he” had never known, whose lives ended in a suffocating fog, “his” shadowy form not unlike a wraith haunting the world of the living, singing a soft lullaby of eternal peace. “He” wandered among the graveyards of brave Nighthawks, praying solemnly for their souls. With an expression of sorrow, “he” offered a cup of blood to the air, in memory of the sanguines and their ancestor. At the same time, in another continent where the sun never shone, “he” stood vigil before the remains of The City of Silver, honoring their sacrifices with an offer of “his” own worthless tears. Atop an abandoned mountain, “he” silently lay down a single cross beside the words, To the man, Father, Brother and God who loved this world; gone, but never forgotten.

They were multitudes, each separate from each other, with their own will and ways. And yet, they were still all “him”, wandering and wretched, without a home.

He—the him in Tigen, now staring dully down at Old Neil’s grave—suddenly broke into a clown-like smile.

“Old Neil, did you know? Leonard had the most brilliant idea the other day. He made this self-playing piano. It took him a couple tries, actually. He was swamped by work for a while and couldn’t find the time to finish it, but he persevered. Now, I hear that he’s been taking piano lessons so he can duet with his creation…” Klein conjured a white flower, twirling it absently in his hands, speaking absently to air, almost as though he saw someone there.

“My deceased wife loved music,” Old Neil said in passing, pointing to a piano. An emotion too subtle to be detected by the inexperienced Klein flashed momentarily through his eyes.

“...I’ve graduated from claiming expenses from others to being the one others claim expenses from. Are you proud? Hahaha, now, I understand how the Evernight Goddess felt when you made that IOU prayer…”

With a puzzled expression, Klein asked, "Mr. Neil, what kind of ritualistic magic are you doing?"

Old Neil coughed and answered very seriously, "I'll be using magic to settle that debt of thirty pounds today…"

“...The Hidden Sage is dead. Has been for a while, actually. I’m sorry I couldn’t find the time to visit and tell you before now. Next time, I promise to bring you some coffee—the best of the best, grounded by my own hands…”

The corners of his eyes crinkled into a half-smile, Old Neil took in his first look at Klein Moretti, the newest Nighthawk of Tingen. He pointed to a silver tin can with complex flowery patterns, sitting quietly on the table. "Would you like a cup of handground coffee?" he asked, kindly.

Klein was kneeling down before Old Neil’s grave, now. Strange. He hadn’t recalled doing so. Oh well. It was unimportant, anyways.

“I…”

He clutched the lone blossom tight between his fingers, blinking rapidly. Had words always been so hard to articulate?

“I…” he raised a gloved hand, blindly reaching for the gravestone before him—or perhaps the person within. His fingers trembled futilely. “I…”

He clenched his hands into fists.

“...I miss you all so much.”

A single tear escaped down his cheek, falling to the ground silently. Only one, and not a single more. It was all he had left to offer, all that he had left to say. The rest of his tears had long run dry. He didn’t know what hurt him more—the cloying miasma of grief and sorrow, or how a part of him didn’t care at all. One day, that indifferent, emotionless part would consume him whole; he knew it as sure as the sun rose in the East and set in the West, as sure as he knew that the underlying tapestry of the universe was madness. One day, he’d stop coming to visit Old Neil, Captain, Daly, and everyone else at all, too detached to care about his fading memories, worn with age and dyed a dull gray with divinity. One day…

One day, that hateful, maddening voice promised; always present, always there.

One day.

“—Klein.”

Klein blinked. A serene quiet had enveloped the lonely graveyard at some unknown point, like a gentle cradle of impenetrable darkness, though for him, peace still felt so very far away. Still, that voice—Her voice—brought him back from the drowning tide of grief, the roaring madness that echoed, always, in the back of his mind.

“…Amanises,” Klein murmured, his back still facing Her. He bent down and offered the white flower to his first teacher, his foremost guide to the twisted world of mysticism, gently laying the immaculate bloom before the old, dusty stone. “What brings you here?”

“You’ve been here a long time,” the Evernight Goddess’ ethereal voice answered him. No more than a whisper, Her voice came to him as though through a fading dream, wonderful and beautiful, yet strange and haunting. A quiet pair of footfalls approached the kneeling Klein. “I was getting worried.”

Klein did not turn. “Is that so?” he asked emotionlessly. He hadn't noticed. Did it really matter, though?

The dragging hem of a dark gown appeared in the corner of his vision. A soft rustle indicated that Amanises had fallen down to Her knees before the grave next to him. Even without turning his head, Klein could see the subtle arch of the Goddess’ neck as She bowed, the respectful clasp of Her hands, and the beautiful, lonely flower held within Her grasp—a night vanilla, said to be beloved by the Goddess of Evernight.

Holding a candle in his grasp and taking animatedly, Old Neil glanced at his attentive student with mild satisfaction and said in a teaching tone, “Take note that plants like roses, lemons, mint, moon flower, night vanilla, and slumber flowers are beloved and cherished by the Goddess....”

“My brave Nighthawk,” Amanises whispered softly into the night, bringing the night vanilla to her lips and closing Her eyes. “Thank you for your loyal service, Old Neil of the Tingen’s Nighthawks.” With a gentle kiss to the night vanilla, the Goddess placed Her own flower beside Klein, Her song-like voice a soothing lullaby to the soul. It was a well-practiced motion, graceful and smooth. “Rest in peace, within the eternal embrace of the night.”

“...Rest in peace, Old Neil,” Klein offered in turn. He tried his best to summon a smile, though it trembled unsteadily. How pathetic—Would Old Neil not want to be welcomed with a bright smile?

Suddenly, a slender hand touched his face. Klein startled, whipping around to face Amanises, the owner of the hand, who was staring at him silently. Sadly.

“You were crying,” She stated softly, trailing Her thumb down his face, tracing the tear’s presumed path. Then, with a soft shake of Her veil, the Evernight Goddess gracefully withdrew Her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“…No, it’s fine. It was just a tad surprising, is all,” he murmured. Klein distractedly raised a hand to his own cheek, feeling the ghost of his friend’s touch fading away like a passing dream. A normal human being’s touch would’ve left a slight residential warmth, but there was… nothing. Not even the slightest proof or trace that She had once interacted with him, or that he had once interacted with Her.

Do we belong here? Here, in the realm of humans?

As quickly as that foreign thought invaded his mind, Klein shook it away. No—he couldn’t think like that. He was still human, not a separate race of existence. Even if mundane blood no longer ran in his veins, even if his heart beat only for play, even if his touch would not leave a mark of warmth on the world, he—Amanises—they were still as real and human as anyone else, as deserving of life as any other living being.

Remember, you are a “he”, not a “He”... Remember, remember…

Watching the taciturn Klein beneath Her shadowy veil, Amanises, intuiting his concern, gently comforted, “Your humanity remains greatly intact. There is no cause for worry as long as you continue as you have so far. Interact with the world, with your followers, with your loved ones when you still have the chance. Nourish those precious feelings. Live, rejoice, and grieve.” She raised a hand to her own cheek. “Do not be ashamed of your tears—they are proof that your humanity lives on.”

Even though, one day, no matter what you do, it shall inevitably fade away.

“—How can you stand it?”

The words had slipped through his lips before he’d thought them through—and yet, Klein found that he held no regrets in voicing his thoughts at all. Still, his voice wavered as he continued—

“You’ve been here… You’ve been fighting against the madness for thousands of years. Enduring the corrosion, the horror, the loneliness. How” —Klein's voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut— “how are you still sane?”

How can you stand knowing that one day, everything you’ve done will have been in vain? That one day, you will be—have been—left alone?

Beside him, Amanises folded Her legs, taking on a sitting position, glittering robes pooling beneath Her feet like a dark lake reflecting the stars. Beneath Her veil, She smiled at him, soft and sad and perhaps even a little mad—but beautiful all the same.

“Because I need to carry those precious memories with me into the future,” Amanises responded, quietly. And although She did not specify what those memories were, Klein did not have to be told. “Through me, they live on. They are my Anchors—the only thing binding me to this wretched world.”

Her smile never faltering, the Evernight Goddess leaned closer towards Old Neil’s grave, gently tilting up Her head, gazing at the stars. “I remember it all—my friends, my family, our era of peace. And when I close my eyes, when the dreams come to me, I see them still.” She brushed an elegant finger over the dusty gravestone. Softer than a whisper, Amanises murmured, “But I also remember my darling Angels, my beloved Saints. I remember my dear Nighthawks—their faces, their names; their dreams, their prayers…”

Klein stayed silent, watching as the gentle darkness around them wavered, as though in grief—as though in pain.

Smiling through the all-consuming pain, the ever-present madness, the devouring divinity, Amanises looked him squarely in the eyes. If She had any tears left to cry, perhaps he would see them now. “So, we must persist. Through us, their memories are carried on into the future, even after their end. Through us, their sacrifices are remembered, even if everyone else forgets. Through us, they live on. Besides—”

Slowly, as though to give Klein time to react, Amanises reached towards him. Though his lips parted and his eyes widened, Klein did not pull away as the Evernight Goddess—the friend, who, though always there, he could never see; the guardian who protected him when he could not protect himself; the steadfast ally who stood by him and never held any doubt—placed Her hand over his. Her touch was not warm. It was not even particularly cold. It was the caress of a distant dream—distant, fleeting, and insubstantial. But it was real, and Klein slowly squeezed it back in turn.

Amanises smiled, as if it was the only thing She could do. “Besides, fate is not so drab and dull. It always has surprises in store for us.” Laughing softly with the melody of the stars, Amanises raised their clasped hands aloft. Her veil swayed gently alongside Her tilted head. “See? Because I persisted, I got to meet you. Because I did not fade away, I finally reunited with Hela after thousands of years. I get to watch over the Society, see as our fellow transmigrators grow from buds into blooms, from sparks into stars. My Church thrives, and a million people look to me as their light in the night, the guiding star that will lead them home.”

Above, the moon—a beautiful, beloved, familiar silver—reached its zenith high in the sky, surrounded by a canvas of twinkling stars. Its pale light illuminated the Evernight Goddess smile.

“So, Klein—promise me that we’ll persist together, until the very end, no matter what may come?”

Klein hid a growing smile behind a hand. He closed his eyes—Perhaps, that way, the tears would not fall. “What is this, a marriage proposal?” he tried to joke, though his voice was a little wet and most definitely muffled.

Still holding onto his hand, Amanises laughed. “Of course not—you’re a thousand years too young for me, Mr. Fool. But if you’re truly so taken with me, I suppose that, in a millenia, you can ask again,” She teased, eyes narrowing in mirth beneath Her veil.

Klein let himself relax, smiling a brilliant smile that could be mistaken for the light of a star, even as his eyes shone with a moist lustre. “I promise,” he whispered gently, holding tight onto his friend.

Friend.

How long had it been since he’d had one, again?

A single tear fell down his cheeks, followed by another.

And so, beneath the pale glow of the silver moon, the two friends sealed their vow.