Archive of Our Own

I

The patient didn’t recognize the woman who’d just entered her room.

This was not particularly unusual- since the moment she’d awoken, some two hours ago, the patient hadn’t once felt the warmth of familiarity. The first sight she’d seen was the sun pushing past the horizon, rays parting wispy cloud-strips to dye a shadowy garden in deepening hues, as if breathing new life into the flowers. It was a splendid vista, one that filled her with a primal appreciation for the dawn, as if she was a goddess of the earth, linked to every being that sprang from the soil, feeling their combined rapture at the arrival of the star that lent them sustenance. And yet, she could not remember seeing this view before, or any sunrises at all- she knew what the phenomenon was, could define it from a visual or astronomical standpoint, and yet had no recollection of what a sunrise felt like, as if this was her very first time observing one.

It had made her slightly uneasy, as did the sight of the room- an airy, clean place, certainly, but still unmistakeably medical, though she couldn’t recall any hospitals either. She couldn’t feel any pain besides a slight twinge in her temples when she closed her eyes and tried to recall how she’d ended up here, and eventually gave up trying to remember- clearly, she’d been afflicted by some manner of mental ailment, presumably amnesia. The patient was mildly surprised at how coolly she processed this, easily accepting the fact that her entire life before today was a gaping black hole- she supposed you couldn’t miss what you didn’t recall having. Essentially, she knew nothing about her character, so she couldn’t relate to her own plight- it was the same as reading about some distant calamity in a newspaper, afflicting people you didn’t know and never would. She could, of course, convey the fear and confusion of an amnesiac, jumping up from bed, running around, screaming at the staff and distrusting everyone before settling down and numbly listening to some dispassionate nurse explain her plight with practiced sympathy that might even be the tiniest bit genuine- yes, she could do all that, natural as breathing. But she saw no need to, and thus kept gauging the situation.

In the two hours since, she’d managed to deduce a few things about her predicament- for one, this facility seemed to be rather remote, far enough from major urban zones that she couldn’t detect any sounds of traffic or trains. This didn’t mean that it was low-end- on the contrary, the high quality of her sheets and the massive, impeccably-maintained garden outside her window suggested that this was one of those high-end establishments for rich clients, allowing them to recuperate in a natural, peaceful environment, perhaps in some idyllic stretch of the countryside or a coastal town. This would mean she was either well-off or connected to someone with deep pockets, though it was impossible to tell if she was newly-admitted or a longstanding denizen- mysteriously, there seemed to be nothing resembling a journal or guide nearby. At least they’d provided her with a fundamental bit of info- on her bedside table lay a large bouquet of flowers- lavender roses, fresh and fragrant, regal in their subtle shades. At the base of the fine wrapping lay a small card, borders etched in gold filigree, bearing the words Tsuruhime Yachiyo. A classy present and an interesting name- cranes, princesses and eternity. Slowly but surely, the patient had begun to take an interest in herself.

Being the patient, observant type, she’d decided to wait for someone to step in and inform her about the situation rather than immediately wandering around the complex. Besides, she still felt rather drowsy, as if she’d stayed up late last night, and didn’t really feel like moving about unless it was necessary. Under a cloche on her bedside table lay a breakfast of steaming coffee and fruit sandwiches- a light, refreshing meal that rejuvenated her without leaving her bloated and kindled her appetite for lunch, which would probably be much heartier. She took her time eating, taking small, careful bites and savouring the interplay of flavours, closing her eyes and etching them into her memory- a futile errand, perhaps, considering she didn’t know the state of her amnesia, but one she still felt driven to do by instinct. By the time she was done, a little over an hour had passed since her awakening, and the patient was starting to grow restless.

She slid off the bed and stretched a little, noting that her body was in decent shape- someone made sure to have her exercise regularly. A closer investigation of the room revealed a great degree of personalization- there was a shelf at the far end lined with books and magazines, a closet filled with a wide variety of clothes tailored to her fashion sense, a sewing kit and various perfumes, combs and other handy items in the drawers of her bedside table. She’d only planned to skim through everything, but grew so fascinated by the details that another hour had passed before she knew it, with not a single peep from outside. The door wasn’t locked, but there were no major electronic devices in the room beyond the air-conditioner- not even a phone or a T.V. The patient felt an odd sense of déjà vu at times, as if she’d done all this before- in one sense, she probably had, but it felt more profound than mere repetition. It was as if this entire room, down to the tiniest details, was a set designed intricately to guide and shape her behavior upon awakening, each item and design choice meant to produce a certain impression and reaction. Like a stage, it conjured up ideas, scenarios and directions, smoothly easing her into the skin of a character, into a role named Tsuruhime Yachiyo, giving her a host of subtle cues to spur an instinctive improvisation. She ought to have been unnerved by the omniscient, microscopic detailing of it all, but felt oddly flattered and downright comfortable, as if imbibing, integrating and iterating all this data was second nature to her, an actor building on reality’s grand script.

It was at this point that her visitor came in, pushing the door open in a swift, practiced manner that suggested force of habit, reinforced by the lack of visible distress or haste in her approach- she’d done this before, and Yachiyo’s heart sank at the prospect of her amnesia being recurrent. Even so, she didn’t lose her nerve, continuing her appraisal with an ingrained detachment. The visitor seemed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, though she looked older, and not in a good way, as if she was slumping under a burden too heavy to even shrug off, pinning her to a world that seemed far grimier than this sunlit, fragrant retreat. Her dark jacket, which used to be a posh, tailored designer item at some point, now hung woefully off her shoulders, and the hems of her jeans were worn, fraying, and dusty, with mud-flecked, scuffed boots completing the image of a model-turned-vagabond. She was carrying a worn blue sports bag that seemed rather heavy, and had no nurses or staff accompanying her- yep, definitely used to this scenario.

“Yachiyo. How are you feeling this morning?” She addressed the patient whilst striding past her, venturing into a corner of the room that had a chair laid out and carrying it over to the bed, before setting her bag down beside it and rolling her shoulders- quick, businesslike movements, but not in the same way as a professional paid to show concern and ensure a patient’s comfort. Her visitor made no excessive displays of sympathy because she trusted Yachiyo’s ability to tell that she was familiar and trustworthy, someone she could rely on, and she’d been absolutely correct- already, the patient was responding to the scene she’d set, improvising like a longtime co-star.

“Fine, thanks. I can’t remember the last time I was in a room this nice. Or the last time I was in a room. Or the last time I felt nice. Or anything resembling the idea of a ‘last time’ at all.” Carefully, she watched her visitor for any signs of surprise, though none arose, conclusively proving that this wasn’t her first time she’d experienced a loss of memory.

Thankfully, her visitor didn’t seem like the secretive type, turning to face her and laying down the facts without beating around the bush. “Yes. That’s because you’re currently suffering from amnesia- to be specific, a combination of retrograde and anterograde amnesia. This means that you sometimes wake up with no memories of past events.”

“Ah.” The abruptness of it all had still left her unable to sink into despair, but she felt an unease creeping up from a pit deep in her stomach, and had to struggle to keep her voice level. “Sounds like something out of a corny film, huh? And what role do you play, I wonder? The beleaguered lover? The concerned friend? The neutral messenger? You’ll forgive me for saying you don’t seem very doctor-like, though I imagine you’d be very dashing in a lab coat.”

She didn’t smile, presumably used to the patient’s weak stabs at humour as she came to terms with her plight- a stand-up routine without mirth, where the only one guffawing was the world that had wrought such a cruel joke. After a moment’s pause, the visitor answered her question, speaking in that same calm, low voice. “My name is Yukishiro Akira. We attended highschool together- the Siegfeld Institute of Music. Does the name evoke any memories?”

“Sounds pretentious. And no.” The patient couldn’t bring herself to banter on, all breezy and aloof- this was a question of her identity, of her very sense of self. “So… what’re my chances? For recovery, I mean. Could I… Is there anything you could do to bring it all back? And maybe in a way that sticks?”

“There are certain methods.” She sounded like she was reading out a weather forecast, detached enough to nearly get on the patient’s nerves, and yet she couldn’t really grow annoyed- had the visitor tried to sound cheery or gauge her mood before picking her response, the patient would have sunk even deeper into paranoia, certain they were trying to hide the truth from her. This way, at least she knew she wasn’t being toyed with, and listened intently as the visitor went on. “Your amnesia doesn’t occur at frequent or regular intervals- indeed, the rate of manifestation since your accident has grown progressively lower, and nearly a year has passed since the last instance. The doctors are optimistic that they’ll cease altogether in the future, so consider this one of the final stumbling-blocks on the road to recovery. Gradually, we’ll begin the process of reviving your memories, which will take anywhere between a week and a month. Once that’s done, you can simply go about life as usual. Unfortunately, you’ll have lost some bits of time, but it’s better than what most people in your situation have to live with.”

“Two steps forward, one step back, huh?” The patient let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, not pleased, exactly, but decently far from misery or hysteria. “Alright. I think I understand. What’s next on the schedule, then? Do you have a journal? Sticky notes? A Get-To-Know Tsuruhime Yachiyo book? A highlight reel? A Carrd?”

“Patience.” Her visitor motioned to the bed, and finally took a seat after the patient had climbed on. Legs crossed, arms folded, back settled and head tilted to regard her with a piercing stare- there was something languidly imperial in her demeanour. The patient felt slightly cornered by the intensity of her gaze, like a hamster in a glass box, but once again, behavior that would be unwelcome from anyone else seemed strangely natural coming from her visitor. After another excruciatingly long pause, she spoke. “We’ve found that it’s best to take things slow, especially in the days directly after the onset of amnesia. You’re a blank slate right now, Yachiyo, so we can’t expose you to a massive amount of recollection-triggering content right off the bat, since it might warp your sense of perspective or overwhelm your memory. You need to settle into your own skin, to grow used to being yourself, naturally allowing certain mannerisms, feelings and attitudes to reestablish themselves. Once you’ve secured your foundation, we can move on to restoring the past. For now, just take it all in and process your emotions.”

“If you say so.” The patient found that she didn’t mind the wait, as long as there was something around to hold her attention. Her past, the future- even now, those considerations seemed hazy and dull, like unconvincing fictions compared to the rich, subtle reality of her senses and these passing moments. In a way, she might’ve even enjoyed the ambiguous, fluid potential of it all, now that she’d confirmed that her predicament wasn’t debilitating. As long she was here, upon this set, operating by a script performed many times before, she might as well fully inhabit the role. Feeling light and playful again, she turned her attention to the visitor, who hadn’t uttered a word during her reflections, almost as if she was awaiting the next line, a jumping-off point in what was an improv for Tsuruhime Yachiyo and an oft-rehearsed piece for her. The patient shifted slightly to face her, giving the visitor her undivided attention. “You never answered my first question. Who are you, really? And what’s our relationship right now?”

For the first time, her marble façade seemed to soften, giving way to a softer, more spontaneous attitude. “I’m an actor, and so are you, though circumstances have forced us to take a sabbatical. The school I told you about, Siegfeld- it was a highly prestigious institution, and we’re quite well known in dramatic circles. Of course, this facility is remote enough to elude the paparazzi, so we needn’t worry about secrecy or interruptions. As for our relationship… well, we’d been quite close in school, but drifted apart after graduation, pursuing our careers. We’d still meet up occasionally, and collaborated on several projects, but at the time of the accident that caused your amnesia, we were in different parts of the nation. Currently, I’m serving as your caretaker- every time you’re struck by amnesia, I guide you back to recovery, and monitor you to prevent further issues. You had an attack again yesterday, slipping in and out of consciousness with no clear idea of who you were, so I readmitted you to this facility. Now that you’re stable, we just need to follow standard procedure until you’re out and about.”

“Just a caretaker, huh? How very kind of you to devote years of your life to supporting me.” The patient wanted to voice the obvious question of why her recovery was being overseen by an acquaintance and not someone closer, like her family, but she supposed the situation spoke for itself. It conjured up some rather depressing images, but rather than worry about people she wasn’t sure even existed, the patient elected to focus on one who most certainly did. “It makes me wonder, though- why exactly are you lavishing so much time on me? I’d have understood it if you were my best friend or my lover, but from the way you describe our relationship, we were barely just colleagues. Or are you perhaps planning on taking the next step… er, what did I refer to you as? Yukishiro-san? Akira-san? Akira-chan? Aki?”

“Akira-senpai.” Her reply was hastier than normal, and the patient swore she could see a tinge of pink beneath those sculpted cheekbones- this was getting more interesting by the moment. “That’s what you called me in school, and later on as well.”

“Once again, you haven’t answered the core of my question.” A smug, teasing tone had crept into her voice, incredibly natural- she liked poking and prodding like this, establishing control in gentle, subtle ways, like weaving gossamer word-webs of suggestion and implication. “Did I venture too close to the truth, Akira-senpai? Come now, there’s no need to be shy- luckily for you, I can’t remember anyone ever warning me not to fall in love with strangers- though at this point, you’re the person who knows me best, the one closest to my heart. Even if I can’t recall any moments we’ve spent together, I can still feel a connection- somehow, some way, you and I are bound together. Isn’t that right, Akira-senpai?”

“Careful, Yachiyo. You’re just latching on to the first person you’ve seen, because there’s no place else to direct your emotions.” She was trying to sound professional again, but the patient’s words had clearly left a mark. “And no, we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m caring for you because that’s my duty as your senior, as someone in the same field. You don’t recall this, Yachiyo, but you’re a genius- a performer of unparalleled nuance and depth, enriching the field by your very presence. The stage is your life, and mine as well- for that reason, I’m looking to get you back on your feet as soon and as effectively as possible, so you can make a spectacular comeback and continue sparkling on the grandest of stages.”

“Theatre? Showbiz? I must’ve been a pretty interesting person, then.” The world her visitor reverently spoke of, far beyond the walls of this room, felt nearly impossible to visualize, too radiant and lofty to glimpse from her humble resting-place. And yet, it wasn’t truly alien- the very mention of the word stage stirred something inside her, a crystalline rivulet trickling from parted rocks, the surface of a bountiful reservoir of instincts, emotions and memories. Within her lay a dramatic essence, the grease and fuel of the theatre, flowing in infinite forms, bearing endless reflections, seeping everywhere, through peaks and dunes and minds and souls, never diminished, no matter what she suffered. That was the true nature of Tsuruhime Yachiyo, the prodigious depth locked within her thawing heart- guided by the glimmer of this lonesome pearl, wanderers would find a spring in the middle of nowhere, fantasy bursting from reality’s dull bedrock, and slaking their thirst for inspiration. If nothing else, the patient knew this- she was born to perform, a being of the stage.

“Good. You’ve begun to awaken.” For the first time since she’d walked in, the visitor’s voice bore a powerful emotion, a thrumming, fierce approval- she was, the patient realized, proud of Tsuruhime Yachiyo. “I can see it in your eyes- a tranquil river that runs over everything, until every boundary between fact and fiction has dissolved, until this flat, linear world has been lent a profound depth. There are no random events, no moments lost, no feelings wasted- everything you experience is sewn into a script, every existence rescued from meaninglessness and blessed with a purpose, a role in your kaleidoscopic narrative. When I witnessed for the first time the scenery of your soul, I was blown away- truly, it gleamed like platinum, a mirror forged by the goddesses for the kings, reflecting this revolving, ever-reborn universe. And each time you stir from that blank, hollow slumber, I remind you of who you used to be, who you can still become, and rejoice in the rekindling of that light. That is why I’m here, Yachiyo- I’ll never give up on you, never abandon you. No matter how long it takes, I’ll illuminate your path again.”

“You… you weren’t kidding about being an actor, huh? What a monologue.” The patient- no, Yachiyo- replied, her light, snarky tone belying the sudden, almost-painful racing of her heart. What in the world was this? Had it been possible to feel like this? Could a speech by someone she’d barely met, however heartfelt, actually move her to this degree? It seemed impossible, but the emotions coursing through her were unmistakable- a melodious, thundering euphoria, the sense that someone had understood her, almost more intimately than she understood herself, striking some hidden chord under this blank slate and producing a resonant, electrifying note that sent forth multitudes of meaning. Sifting through her memories, she found that there was still nothing specific that rose to mind. And yet, she somehow knew, on the deepest of levels, that this regal, noble stranger was not unfamiliar at all, but someone she owed everything to.

“Well, Yachiyo? Would you like to try your hand as well? It’s never too early or late to seize a role.” Without quite waiting for a reply, Akira slung the sports bag onto her knees and began to rummage through it, revealing a variety of books and scripts, some freshly-printed and others well-worn and covered with scribbled notes. “I’ve got some scripts for us to enact, though we could also be flexible and perform an étude. You were very diligent, so not a day went by when you didn’t get some practice in. Even now, without memories, the talents you’ve always had and the skills you’ve drilled in ought to manifest perfectly. Shall we begin?”

“Er… alright. Let me take a look.” Yachiyo felt slightly overwhelmed at the suddenness of it all, but being asked to leap into an enactment on short notice was hardly an issue- indeed, she already felt an instinctive, intricate bond begin to form as she rifled through the scripts Akira had just handed her. They felt so warm, so familiar to her fingers, reams of paper slipping past to leave phantom traces that took on a life of their own, the roots of creativity spreading through her body, soon to blossom into wonderful, breathing characters. The scent of freshly-printed sheets, the crinkle of old pages spread out, the bracketed worlds that painted in the backgrounds of her stage, and the lines that flowed like heartbeats in text, layering and deepening scenarios- to her, these were better windows than the one right beside her, leading into distant lands, from the verdant courtyards of medieval romances to the moody apartments of kitchen-sink drama. Yachiyo didn’t need to strive to decipher those words or interpret a context- they pushed past two dimensions, bubbling through the page and flowing into her, a transfusion of inky blood, letting her be anyone she wanted. This was her element, her destiny, filling her thoughts with so many memories that she could barely remember she’d forgotten her own.

The rest of the day seemed to pass by in a flash, endlessly entertaining- there was never a dull or wasted moment, never a sense of awkwardness or monotony, as if every sentence that passed between them was penned by a masterful dramatist, crafting lines with enthralling economy. It was the result, Yachiyo realized, of a profound chemistry, as if their true selves were roles as well- not in a feigned, artificial sense, but because they complemented each other in every way. A fusion of longtime experience and natural compatibility made them the ideal co-stars, easily adapting to every dynamic, every ad-lib, until that quiet, clinical room had transformed into a platform for dreams, witness to countless partings and reunions.

They started light, with études to play friends reunited after a long time (Yachiyo made up embarrassing secrets to tease Akira with, and Akira feigned a maturity that collapsed into youthful openness), lovers embroiled in a long-held argument (Akira twisted facts to fit her convenience, Yachiyo interpreted her every action in the worst possible light), strangers admiring a painting (Akira revealed a surprisingly intricate knowledge of the classics and theory of art, while Yachiyo rattled off blatantly false and often bizarre information with blithe cheeriness), a senpai-kōhai duo parting at graduation (Akira awkwardly tried to prolong their farewell by spouting redundant advice, and Yachiyo laughed her off and asked her to hurry on whilst struggling to hide her tears) and lastly, a person on their deathbed telling a distant relative the story of their life (Yachiyo struggled a bit at first, but managed to paint a decently realistic portrait of a life that was mildly interesting, if mostly unfulfilled, while Akira cut in with doubts and comments that challenged, corrected or guided Yachiyo based on the situation, though at the end, her character placed a surprising insistence on the worth of the dying storyteller’s existence).

After breaking for lunch (Akira warmed up a container of sweet-and-sour pork), they resumed practice, finally leaving the room to stretch their legs and perform out in the open. The corridors and halls were as quiet and restive as her room, though Yachiyo saw staff members and visitors moving about at times, and giving her smiles and waves whenever their eyes met. They had to keep the noise to a minimum so as to avoid disturbing the other denizens, but the garden was relatively unoccupied around this time, and so they set up a new stage there, stacking cans and bottles of coffee and juice as well as some snacks. Once the preparations were complete, they sat down on a picnic blanket Akira laid out, and began to pore over the scripts they’d enact.

The exercise lasted well past dusk, though Yachiyo never felt particularly weary- it was as if the act of leaping into a new character filled her with their strength, renewing her spirit for the next scene. Earnestly, soulfully, she brought those roles to life- Diaochan’s enthralling mixture of seduction and loyalty, Lupin’s greedy, charming devil-may-care panache, Caesar’s imperial presence and ambition, dancing between wisdom and arrogance, Cupid’s mischievous antics that stemmed from an honest love for infatuation itself, the domineering eccentricities of the Queen of Hearts, hegemon of her hectic realm, and the plaintive, flickering hope and despair of the Little Match Girl, fittingly performed as night’s fingers streaked the sky. Like costumes, she donned and cast roles off, but each of them settled down within her, eternal residents in the theatre of her soul, lives patiently waiting to possess her again, and feel the world move as it had moved the first time. She was so much more than herself, so much happier, that she didn’t for a moment recall her misfortunes until they’d finally called it a day. Only then did she heave a sigh, feeling the lingering emotions within her slowly drip away, like the afterglow of radiant fireworks fading from her irises, revealing a reality duller and clearer all at once.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here tomorrow as well.” Akira, as usual, seemed to have read her mind, folding up the blanket as she smiled at Yachiyo. “Make sure not to stay up too late reading- I need you fresh and energetic for what I’m planning next.”

“I’ll just toss around in bed speculating if you say stuff like that, you know?” Yachiyo arranged all the scripts into a neat sheaf and placed them back in the bag. “You’ve had front-row seats to my heart all day, so you probably know how much I enjoyed myself. Still, I want to thank you, Akira-senpai. Waking up with no idea of who I was, of what I was meant to do… it didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d think, but that’s because it didn’t feel like anything at all. I was just… alive, there, but not really experiencing life. It was like I was a spectator to a drama I hadn’t asked to see. But you unlocked emotions I didn’t know I had, helped me smile again. You’ve probably done it dozens of times by now, but for me, for the Yachiyo I am currently, it’s still the very first time. And I’m very grateful for that.”

“You’re welcome.” Akira didn’t try to downplay or brush aside the praise- she knew perfectly well the value of what she’d given Yachiyo, and accepted her feelings with dignity and grace. “To help you when you’ve fallen, to nurture your genius, to light your path to tomorrow- that is my duty. I won’t falter, Yachiyo- not for the rest of my life.”

“Geez, you’re getting all dramatic again.” Yachiyo stretched, staring up at the night sky, still light enough to have a touch of violet, a fetching royal tapestry for the emerging stars. A breeze stirred this tranquil grove of petals and leaves, bathing them in mingling fragrances, as myriad as the lives they’d played under the shifting heavens. Within this rustic, dreamlike slice of the world, as tiny and wide as a leaf that perched a raindrop, hung a million colors and possibilities, condensed within a trembling moment. A quiet, ephemeral story that no one might hear of had unfolded within this fairytale clearing, as magical as it had been upon the first telling, and fated to be told many times again, replaying these sweet memories across the morphing ages. What bliss, what fortune- this was why she’d always loved the stage, and also this beautiful performer who’d accompanied her onto it. Amorous and warm-hearted upon this picturesque night, she regarded Akira with familiar fondness. “Still, Akira-senpai, I wish you’d be more romantic. Duty’s a fine and noble thing to live for, but sometimes, the heart desires a simpler vow. If only you’d say you couldn’t keep yourself away from someone as alluring as me, drawn in no matter how troublesome I might be, like a sailor chasing sirens in the sea- ah, but that might be a bit out-of-character for you, huh?”

Akira laughed in that strange, distinctive way she had- not a full-bellied, breathless chortle, but a short, approving bark, like someone calling touché in a fencing match. “There’s nothing out-of-character for a good-enough actor. Besides, who’s to say that duty can’t be selfish or ardent? To fulfil your promises despite all doubts, putting your beliefs and responsibilities above every touch of conscience or common sense, because you’re infatuated with an idea, a rank, a role- that manner of love is more suited to our kind, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh? Is that a confession I hear?” Yachiyo edged closer to her dear visitor, whose silver locks glimmered like polished platinum in the moonlight, lustrous enough to resemble lady Artemis herself, the queen of that distant lunar realm.

Akira slung the sports bag back over her shoulder and turned around, purple eyes glimmering with an elusive emotion that even Yachiyo couldn’t decipher, and was thus utterly entranced by. “I’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning. By then, I want you to construct a take on Medusa that’s good enough to surprise me, to outshine my Perseus and lend a greyness to our conflict. Succeed, and I’ll reward you with an answer.”

“Not Andromeda, but the Gorgon, eh? Your Perseus certainly has unique tastes.” Yachiyo gave her a wink she hoped was charming, spreading her arms with a showman’s flair. “Very well- I’ll sparkle well enough to turn you to stone, and break that wall around your heart when you’re too stunned to move. Remember your promise, Akira-senpai- I’ll be waiting on my stage.”

“Good night, Yachiyo.” She strolled away, raising an arm in farewell without looking back- in her heart, she knew that she’d always find Tsuruhime Yachiyo again. It had been an enjoyable day, full of wonderful memories, and one worth preserving for eternity. Yachiyo watched her till she was out of sight, before stretching and yawning as exhaustion finally set in, weighing her mind and body down the pleasant numbness that follows a period of good, hard work. By the time she’d strolled up to her room, she was already half-asleep, though in that curious way that distorts your sense of time and prevents you from fully dozing off. She pored over a book about old Greek myths after having a light supper, and barely noticed the time until it slipped from her drooping fingers. Conceding to slumber’s call, Yachiyo tucked herself in, venturing into dreamland with ideas in her mind and a smile atop her lips, eagerly awaiting tomorrow.

II

After leaving the facility’s grounds, Akira went straight home, driving the bike she’d procured some years ago down restive, lonely country roads, trees and fields sailing by until she reached the town where she’d purchased a one-room apartment. The location served as a fairly popular vacation spot for people who wanted the taste of a quieter, simpler time, to the point where it had become the town’s brand, which was perhaps why it seemed a bit more 20^th-century than a place of its size and traffic would naturally be in this day and age. At any rate, the townsfolk could be counted upon not to interfere or spread news around, giving her the privacy she sorely needed to keep tending to Yachiyo. She’d been living here for about a year now, treated more like a familiar local than the exotic, mysterious celebrity she’d been seen as upon arrival, and though she had no social circle or acquaintances to speak of, the people had grown oddly fond of her, seeing this stoic, beautiful outsider as a sign of good fortune.

The first thing she did after trudging up the steps to her apartment was to unlock the second drawer in her desk with a key she carried on her at all times, before fishing out a worn journal. Bound in nondescript brown leather and sealed with yet another key, it contained secrets that could not come to light as long as Akira was here, details only a precious few were privy to. Sitting at her desk, Akira retrieved a pen from her front pocket and began scribbling without further ado, lines upon lines in a cramped, furtive hand, so distorted by hasty entries made in moments of immense thought and emotion that it almost served as a cypher, an additional layer of security. And in one way, perhaps it was- the ideas scrawled within that journal over years were so unique to Akira’s eclectic mindset that no stranger could begin to grasp them, or interpret them as anything beyond deranged ramblings. To make the slightest sense of the journal’s contents, one would need to have an acute understanding of not just Yukishiro Akira’s values, seeded in childhood and developed over her tenure as Siegfeld’s king, but also of Tsuruhime Yachiyo’s past and talents, as well as the history between them. It was, in every sense, a record of the swirling, obsessive thoughts harboured by one person towards another, the former being fixated upon a lofty ideal and the latter being tragically betrayed by it.

Only after she was done making her latest entry did Akira see to her own needs, locking up and storing the journal before taking a shower and heating up dinner. Her meals were simple and efficient, selected for nutritive value and ease of preparation- Akira had been a connoisseur of flavours once, but rarely indulged in such pleasures anymore, reserving her culinary knowledge for the lunches and snacks she brought Yachiyo daily. Once in a while, she’d treat herself to a particularly spicy bowl of ramen or curry rice seasoned with ghost peppers, but they didn’t feel nearly as delicious as the ones she’d had at Siegfeld (or once, at Frontier). More than simple nostalgia, it felt as if her senses had grown number, less capable of registering the subtleties of the world, and the experience she’d accumulated didn’t compensate for it, but only reminded her of how much clearer her life had seemed in youth. She wasn’t all that old- by the standards of the industry, she was actually in her prime, but intuition told her that her best years were already far behind. It wasn’t an assumption based in logic or physical fact, but in acting, such rationality was unnecessary- a lack of motivation could prove every bit as debilitating as a broken limb, and Akira felt like a slab had been carved from her chest, the jewels prised from her crown.

Once she was done with dinner, she walked listlessly around the apartment- she’d constructed a rough schedule that covered exercise, preparations for visits, shopping and so forth, but didn’t feel particularly compelled to stick to it tonight. She couldn’t focus on any books, words stuck in clumps that refused to unravel in her mind, and nor could she process any of the flickering, smoky images that danced upon the screen of her small TV. At long last, she decided to return to the topic she’d spent the past two years dwelling upon, one that never really left her mind at any time, no matter how she strove to distract herself. Retrieving the journal once more, she slumped against the wall furthest from the door and flipped through the entries, pausing now and again to pore over those that caught her eye.

Year 1, Day 1

I am writing this journal in order to create a record of Tsuruhime Yachiyo’s life following her accident, and also my attempts to assist her. The doctors have ascertained that her amnesia is of a particularly troublesome kind- her memories reset every time she sleeps, meaning that Yachiyo will always ‘wake up’ with no recollection of anything preceding the moment she opened her eyes. Despite extensive consultations with world’s foremost medical professionals and even some dabbling in experimental procedures, I regret to say that there are no available cures. This might change at some point in the future, but in all scenarios excluding the actively miraculous, Yachiyo stands to lose the best years of her life, time and time again. I can hardly believe that things have devolved so abruptly- it seems only a heartbeat ago that she enjoyed growing fame and a career that promised to be legendary. To see a star of Yachiyo’s calibre reduced to such a state is heartbreaking- having devoted my life to the stage, a platform where we shine as kings, I did not expect to be dealt such a cruel blow by reality.

I have been advised more times than I can count to ‘let it go’ and simply pray for Yachiyo’s recovery whilst focusing on my career- this, as several virtual strangers confidently inform me, is ‘what she would’ve wanted you to do’. A convenient, self-serving answer that allows me to shed a few tears, make a poignant speech or two recounting our time together in sound-byte-friendly detail, stage a few interviews, use the public sympathy to generate attention for a new production, and dedicate the revenues to Yachiyo’s treatment, or to the cause of those similarly affected. A neat, efficient roadmap, worlds apart from the random twist of faith that struck my successor from the heavens. It infuriates me, disgusts me, though I don’t entirely understand why. Simply put, I do not wish to take the ‘best’ way. I do not wish to handle this in a calm and composed manner, because if I were really so sensitive and mature, then I might’ve prevented this tragedy in the first place.

A psychologist- I’ve met my share of the reptiles- would coolly diagnose this as survivor’s guilt or something similar, reducing the feelings poisoning my heart to a trick of the mind, nothing beyond a stress-induced logical fallacy distorting cause-and-effect. How could I have known, they’d calmly ask, that Yachiyo was overworking herself for a particularly challenging role? She’d always aimed for unfamiliar territories and creative interpretations, pushing the borders of what an actor could achieve, not simply to surpass her peers, but to satisfy her own lofty standards, a genius vying with herself. The most recent one was nothing different, and even if there had been subtle differences, a tad too much weariness mixed in with those shining efforts, I wouldn’t have noticed- didn’t I have a high-profile role of my own to handle, they’d ask? Any court in the world would absolve me, but I couldn’t forgive myself- the king’s responsibility to his vassals was greater than anything their terminology-stuffed minds could conceive of, and the judgment for his sins far heavier than the empty comfort I was paying them a fortune-an-hour to provide.

As she is now, no one truly cares about Tsuruhime Yachiyo. She wasn’t the kind of performer who sought to constantly occupy the public imagination, and much of her fame was restricted to high-profile theatre circles, who have since turned their attention to other talents- there was no dearth of geniuses from our generation, enough to compensate for Yachiyo’s indisposition and create a new golden age. Her accident wasn’t front page news on the day right after, and by now, she’s been virtually forgotten- a former Frau Platin is hardly important when there’s a dozen others (myself included) in the business, and many more on the way. There were some people who cared for her a person rather than a position, certainly- seniors, juniors, peers and so forth. But all of them have taken the sensible, correct path, and focused on their own careers after providing the requisite condolences, with the kindest among them calling once every few months to check up on the situation, making awkward small talk for a while, and then moving on. Friends, family, fans, coworkers- among them all, only I remain. But it is precisely for this reason that I cannot abandon her. I must take responsibility. And I will.

Year 1, Day 5

I finally managed to secure a visit to Yachiyo today. My agency, the press, and various other acquaintances have made it difficult to find the time, but it seems like they’ve grasped that my sabbatical is not temporary. I can’t clearly gauge how well the staff is treating her, since any successes or failures fail to produce results beyond a day, and am not particularly optimistic in my ability to produce a breakthrough simply due to our history together. Still, I understand her better than anyone else, and must hope it counts for something. I’ve communicated with Yachiyo some half-dozen times after her accident, but our conversation today was the longest yet, and I was able to draw some conclusions that might prove helpful moving forward.

For one, Yachiyo invariably accepts her situation with relative calmness, though it may be due to her inability to recall anything valuable from the past, or construct a scenario for the future. Knowing nothing about herself, she doesn’t know what she’s lost, and this lack of context makes her predicament seem nearly unbelievable. As she starts to reflect upon her state, Yachiyo is able to formulate emotional reactions, though the rate and type depends on the way in which we break the news to her. If bombarded with everything at once, which is what the staff did in the beginning, she simply goes very quiet and still, and doesn’t exhibit any motivation for the rest of the day. She might still answer questions, make small talk if prompted, or request things like books or food, but there’s a certain hollowness in her demeanour, an utter fatalism that seems so unlike her that I can scarcely believe my eyes. Having seen this terrible spectacle a few times in the days following her hospitalization, I never wish to glimpse it again- Tsuruhime Yachiyo, even cracked, must glimmer at least as much as a pearl, if not pure platinum.

The second approach is to conceal the details for as long as possible, but this produces mixed results- Yachiyo, being rather perceptive in general and even more so when her world is limited to a room, is able to detect attempts to avoid her questions or downplay the seriousness of her condition. Naturally, this makes her suspicious and uneasy, though she also seems to find the speculation entertaining, and can be distracted for a while longer via encouraging and playing along with the conspiracy theories she rapidly concocts. Yachiyo has always found roles and illusions more entertaining than reality, and seems to seek a certain security in the deliberately-exaggerated thrills and twists of her invented narratives, though they can’t hold her attention forever, and soon give way to direct, uncompromising inquiries. Further attempts at dodging will evoke a natural reaction- aggressiveness, hostility and extreme paranoia, leading to rather chaotic results that I do not care to record- suffice it to say that she had to be sedated.

Today, I attempted to compromise, and delayed the revelation for as long as possible, engaging Yachiyo in a game of assumptions and improvisation that proved immensely entertaining. Once we brought our little drama to its natural conclusion, Yachiyo once again requested me to tell her the truth, holding nothing back. Once I filled her in, she reacted in an unprecedented way. At first, she tried to laugh it off and play it cool, joking about how lucky she was to experience her first meeting with me on a daily basis. Then, she grew somewhat unsettled, and repeatedly asked if there was truly no cure, seemingly unable to come to terms with the idea of spending the rest of her life in one-day blocks. Once it became clear that no options existed, she strove once again to seem unaffected, making philosophical statements about the shortness of life and the importance of enjoying the present, though her serenity was clearly strained.

I had been expecting- dreading- a breakdown of some sort, but it never arrived. I don’t mean to say that Yachiyo didn’t succumb to despair, as anyone in her situation would, but while most people would direct their dismay and frustration outward, Yachiyo seemed to retreat inward, letting those woeful emotions pool around the edges of her being while she escaped into some distant realm at the center of her soul. It reminded me of how she’d been shortly after I’d first met her, in that time before she came into her own as Frau Perle- an eccentric, hard-to-read loner who always seemed to dwell within her own world, seeing things on a plane no one else could reach, a vision reserved for her alone. Back then, I was enthralled by her dedication, by her commitment to the stage within her heart, enough that I wished to leap onto it, and see the vista that moved her so. I’d reached across the mist and taken her hand, connecting our worlds to pass the torch, not bequeathing her my kingdom, but simply my crown, because Yachiyo had always owned a realm of her own. But today, I was lost for words, unable to summon the royal eloquence I’d used on that fateful day. I stared into those eyes, lonely and distant, thought up and discarded a thousand consolations, and ultimately retreated in disgrace. My only comfort was that she wouldn’t recall my failure for more than a few hours, and awaken again tomorrow in an empty world.

Year 1, Day 38

I’ve been increasing both the frequency and duration of my visits to Yachiyo, but real progress has yet to be attained- my only achievement is extending the period for which I can delay her inquiries. I’ve noticed that even when I show up an hour late, she doesn’t seem to be unsettled by the preceding period of solitude, and instead spends time staring out at the scenery or into the distance, evidently trying to reach a conclusion herself. She’s easily distracted, to the point where the sight of an interesting bird or a magazine placed on her bedside table would prevent her from raising questions until the distraction either fades, or is replaced by a newer one. As an experiment, I instructed the staff not to directly approach or inform her about her condition unless she reached out to them first, and was surprised to find that it took Yachiyo nearly an hour to do so. The duration might be reduced if she noticed a large quantity of nurses rushing by, or heard the groans of a patient on the same floor, since it would induce a spike in anxiety. Thus, placing her in a calm and isolated environment well-stocked with items tailored to hold her interest would ensure optimal stability. Perhaps I can use this information in the future.

Year 1, Day 75

Recently, I’ve begun to employ a new tactic, though it has limited viability. Rather than focus on Yachiyo’s condition, I’ve begun to tell her more about myself, hoping that my descriptions of our past at Siegfeld might produce some kind of flashback or recollection. So far, nothing of the sort has happened, but it’s a topic I can talk about at length, and Yachiyo also seems highly interested in the tales of our youth. I’ve come to enjoy those conversations, reminiscing fondly about my days as king and all the wonderful productions we staged. I tell Yachiyo about our roles, about the efforts we took to inhabit those grand characters, about the classics we strove to reproduce in all their grandeur, and of the scripts we dared to change and innovate upon.

I paint vivid, moving portraits of our fellow Edels, whom I remember as if it was only yesterday that we first assembled in the Student Council room- Liu Mei Fan, fiery and passionate enough to overcome vast distances, Yumeoji Shiori, as sweet and strong as the wind in every season, Otori Michiru, my wise, loyal chancellor, guiding my reign like a clear, sapphire stream, and Tsuruhime Yachiyo herself, both strange and familiar in her infinite versatility to that patient who hung on to my every word. Loyal knights, the jewels in my crown, the pillars of my domain, and the dear friends who helped me fulfil my dream. Together, we staged the grandest-ever performance of Elysion, sure to be recalled for eternity- after we’d been forgotten, and after we’d forgotten ourselves. How many people in this bustling, forgetful world can claim to have been the only ones who did something, the sole achievers of a deed? That was what the five of us had achieved- a moment inimitable across history and the future. Some might accuse me of dwelling in memories, but a memory that shines for time immemorial could never be obsolete.

The proof of it was right before me- words can’t describe how Yachiyo’s eyes gleamed when I told her of what she’d achieved, of the revolution that made her king. She had no memories of those moments, and yet she was spellbound, because she could relate to the characters in my tale, and revel in their triumphs as if she’d been there herself. She could empathize especially with Tsuruhime Yachiyo, with her intriguing journey from solitude to kingship, converting the pearly radiance clasped within a sunken oyster to the lustre of platinum in a hallowed crown. Steadily, miraculously, she became herself, exercising that profound power to trace humanity in every script, and be possessed by a character she brought to life, golem and animator all at once. She understood, with prodigious speed, exactly how to ‘enact’ Tsuruhime Yachiyo, and since her enactment was life itself, the patient could effectively ‘become’ Yachiyo, reconciling the figure from my past with the one sitting before me. The process is still imperfect, completely dependent on the nature of my tales and the way I tell them, but if I succeed, then we might just create a resonance, an identification so immense that the déjà vu awakens all the memories still stored in some corner of Yachiyo’s mind. I’m close to an answer- I just know it.

Year 1, Day 117

I can’t reach it. It’s not good enough. I can get close, tantalizingly, heartbreakingly close, but something’s missing. Even if I’ve attained a perfect imitation, it’s impossible to maintain it, to let the illusion ferment into verisimilitude. The patient who forgets me daily, the once-Yachiyo, the almost-Yachiyo, the germ of what could be Yachiyo- I can’t grasp her. She slips through my hands, a pearl tumbling into the depths, leaving me floundering in dark, icy waters. There’s just not enough time- even if I visit her from dawn to dusk, I can’t compress the story of her life into a reasonable narrative. I inadvertently end up leaving out vital details, or skimming over important events, or just rushing so much that I either tire myself out or confuse Yachiyo.

If I had even one more day, perhaps I might be able to properly frame and present it all, but that’s outside the question- the moment night falls, all my efforts grow immaterial. If only there was a key memory to spring the locks on her mind, freeing her from that bleak, sterilized room- but obviously, nothing’s ever so simple. Individuality is cumulative, built upon millions of unique experiences, each shaping our perception of the next, and therefore the result. Trying to shift the elements alters the outcome, deforming the persona, like lines or scenes flipped out of order in a play. Everything matters, everything is significant, especially for Yachiyo, who lived upon a perpetual stage.

I’d thought I could bestow upon her a path, just as I had in our days as students, but Yachiyo was already herself then- to reenact that pivotal moment, I’d have to reconstruct everything that shaped her uptil that point- impossibilities upon impossibilities. It’s not that my tales are worthless- Yachiyo treasures them, delighting in the tiniest details, and for all my experiments, her joys never grow any less radiant, because every audience is her first. All the more tragic, then, for me to inform her of her predicament, for her to realize that all these emotions will be gone by dawn, every word erased. Having finally grasped the value of her past and life, she’s no longer the detached, aloof observer she awakened as- now at last, tears begin to drip from her eyes, the agony of losing what she valued most, mere hours after she’d obtained it. Every day, her pain bursts as raw and abrupt as her joy, the peaks of bliss supplying crippling falls, until she lies prone and broken in a cold abyss that offers no reassurances, no respites, nothing beyond the promise of decomposition, so she might be reborn and repeat that wretched cycle.

When I see her like that, despondent and lifeless, powerless against her curse, I almost want to forget everything myself, to cleanse every recollection of this tragedy. I can’t bear to see her like this, not a knight or a king or a genius, but simply the victim of a faceless, formless fiend. I feel as if my efforts are only worsening her state, lending her a joy that invariably rots into misery- wouldn’t numbness be better than this Sisyphean torment? I almost hope she’d curse me, fling insults at me, screaming that I never should’ve approached her. If she said that, then I could leave- not in good faith, but with the fatalism of one who’s tried her best. But Yachiyo never lashes out- worse, she stares at me through tear-streaked eyes and smiles, thanking me for trying, for not abandoning her. How I could I listen to that voice, which I’ve heard express countless emotions, and ignore the plea couched within her words? How could I walk away, knowing there’s no one else, that this redundant farce of ours is all she has? I must return.

Year 1, Day 200

Yachiyo. I’ve thought about her for so long that the word has begun to lose its meaning, turning into a mindlessly repeated sound, like the cries of the cicadas outside my window. Yachiyo. Yachiyo. Yachiyo. Who is Yachiyo? What is Yachiyo? What are her components, her causes, the exact proportion of chemicals and conversations that carved her from colorless clay? I’m not sure I’m any closer to the answer today than I was when I first met her. The more you come to know about something, the more you realize remains. I am a fool, anxious to learn, eager to embark on a journey. But when the sun dips past the horizon, I am returned to the place from whence I set forth. A fool, the Fool- Yachiyo played her once. Who was I? I was watching on. I was proud and self-assured. I had a vision. I was decisive. I was strong. I was the Emperor. I was doomed. Like the Dying King. She was the Dying King too. So was I. And yet, why does she pass on while I remain? Do those versions of her that perish daily reach Valhalla? And am I not worthy? Do I still have labours left? Do I still live? Must I improve? Must I be a tyrant? I don’t know. I don’t understand. I have been an actor for too long, filled my brains with too many stories. I can’t tell what reality is anymore. All I know is that it’s not over, for better or for worse. The curtains haven’t fallen. I still have lines to say, gibberish though they might be.

Year 1, Day 244

The process. The method. The act of doing, of performing. Every play is born and burns out on the stage in the moment in which it is played. The validation of the spotlight. The attainment of a ‘being’ is possible only via the action of being. Present continuous. Continuously present. Elysion in three chapters. The world is born. The king is crowned. The souls reunite. They all ‘are’, from the beginning, themselves. And we, being ourselves, being the Edels, can ‘become’ them. We find the route to difference in ourselves. We find the route to ourselves in difference. It’s all a cycle, moved by the Edels, lent structure by tradition and momentum by execution. We are the cogs. We are the gears. To be ourselves, we must simply move. I understand.

For months, I’ve been asking myself the question- what kind of person is Tsuruhime Yachiyo? But I realize now that I’d taken the wrong approach. Yachiyo’s personality isn’t something so easy to describe, and all my attempts culminate in vagueness, limp adjectives bandied about, as if telling an amnesiac that she used to be ‘clever’ and ‘witty’ and ‘thoughtful’ would provide any genuine guidance. Besides, Yachiyo didn’t become the person I was familiar with by trying to put on certain traits- her demeanour was a natural development, grown without artifice- it was precisely because of her sheer, honesty spontaneity that I’d recognized her potential. At heart, Tsuruhime Yachiyo defines herself by results- not measurable, material ones, like cheap awards or standing ovations, but by her own metrics, by subtle sensations. Hers is a soul that constantly reaches, stretching for myriad vibrant forms, never still, never static- if I had to say it all in a word, I’d call her an actor. Not by profession, not by obsession, but by nature itself- her every waking moment used to be a role before this purgatorial sleep.

When outside a formal production, she’d make up ploys and scenarios of her own, playing the spy, the confidant, the trickster. And even in meetings, even outside Siegfeld, she inhabited a role- first Frau Perle, and them Frau Platin. For is that not the Edels’ signature, our defining trait- a ceaseless enactment that stretches across the length of our tenure? One does not stop being an Edel once the spotlight fades and the curtain falls- like jewels, once formed, we gleam forever, and cannot be mistaken for anything else. That is our blessing and our burden, and Yachiyo felt this keener than anyone else- a performer who could become anyone but herself, because she was always whoever she wanted or needed to be, an existence lent life and form by the stage. Without theatre, without the fluidity of drama, Yachiyo would be nothing at all, less than the ashes left over from a match that’s burned away. She cannot conceive of a ‘self’ that has inherent value, born and destroyed as she is in practice. Thus, telling Yachiyo to ‘be herself’ would be akin to locking her in her room forever, or stifling her with a pillow. I had to give her a script, a role, a stage. I had to place her within her natural habitat, and leave the rest to her instincts. Then, perhaps, she’d come into her own.

Year 1, Day 359

To strive with all your heart, be raised from weariness to passion, and to be betrayed yet again- I know the feeling well. It is, after all, the core of the Dying King, the heart of its tragedy- bit by bit, the audience sympathizes with a broken, hopeless old tyrant, invested despite themselves in his potential for redemption, in his journey to penance, only to be dismayed as they realize that his life was forfeit all along. There is an exquisite beauty to that moment, a kind of coiling, contradictory, confusing agony that no other story can induce in an audience. To lament the death of the king after his valiant efforts, and to then question your own pity, wondering if you ought to weep for a former devil, asking whether you’re sobbing for all his past mistakes or for the denial of the future he envisioned… it’s an unsettling, moving conclusion that doesn’t quite offer a neat catharsis, and haunts the viewer for ages to come. I was obsessed with it as a child, even if I didn’t truly understand the meaning of the play until I’d donned the crown, and long after I’d passed the throne on, that role clung to me, every instant crystal-clear in my memory. And now, standing at Yachiyo’s bedside over a decade later, I felt a familiar pain.

I’d tried everything. I’d made Yachiyo enact all the roles we’d played at Siegfeld, marvelling at how perfectly her present performances reflected the ones I recalled. She was still a genius, no doubt about it, ingrained in subconscious levels with an actor’s instinct. But that was all. She’d put on a spellbinding performance, reach the end of the script or our étude or our visiting hours, and then we’d part again. As always, Yachiyo would wilt and wither as the final hours drew near, knowing that all our conversations would be for naught. If I informed her of her condition before asking her to act, she’d perform for escapism. And if I told her the cruel truth at the very end, she’d thank me for an enjoyable experience. Either way, her despondency was as palpable as it was unavoidable. I could delay the moment, take her on a journey, enchant her with a variety of sensations, but it wouldn’t alter the conclusion- the Dying King, after all, cannot escape death. I’d reached the limits of my capability. As a former king, as a friend, as a senior, as a fellow performer, there was nothing more I could do.

Year 2, Day 7

I have devoted over a year of my life to helping Yachiyo. I’ve spared no effort, channelled every bit of my creativity, and thought of nothing else. If I repeated the same process for the rest of my life, nothing would change. The fingers of the night would carve my words from her mind, and the touch of dawn would rouse her to a world made alien again. I could weep for her, lie to her, scream at her, stay beside her, abandon her, or replicate the accident to land myself in the room next to her- none of it would matter. I’d been hopeful. I’d been flexible. I’d harboured, at one point, a despicably dark thought, hoping I’d come to the hospital tomorrow and be told that she’d mysteriously passed away, freeing me from this pointless duty. How I’d hated myself for even thinking that, for tumbling so low that I counted on fate and the gods I’d once brashly vowed to surpass. It was, I suppose, similar to what the first Frau Jade had experienced shortly before she left my court. Was this how she’d felt? Had she grappled with this black, choking pressure, this terror that if nothing changed, she’d split apart at the seams, revealing the ugliness she’d concealed to the whole wide world, the blood and pus and tears beneath a shining visor?

Now I knew- she’d made the best possible decision by leaving. No sane person would want to linger in this miserable state, growing ever closer to a desperate, deplorable act. For the sake of the person I’d once inspired, and for the sake of my own conscience, I had to run away. No matter how pathetic or disgraceful it seemed, it’d be better than staining my hands with sin. I had nothing to lose by fleeing- while Fumi had faced great resentment and censure following her departure, I’d be heartily welcomed into society, greeted with relief by agencies and peers, ready to be furnished once more with fame and fortune. Yachiyo wouldn’t hold a grudge- she wasn’t physically capable of it. That was the point, my escape route- it’d simply be like I never existed. Whether or not I visited her again, regardless of what I said, I’d never really be part of Yachiyo’s life- at most, I’d be a stranger with interesting stories, free to come and go as I pleased. When my conscience prickled, I’d drive over and mutter some condolences, and then return home, pleased with my tokenism, the noblesse oblige of a former monarch. It would be easy, so incredibly easy, to slip free through the wings of this tortuous stage and end my role.

But I wasn’t the kind of person who took the easy way. I wasn’t someone who betrayed the faith people had in me, even if I was no longer the king, even if I had no subjects or vassals. Forget about the ends, the strategies, the results- there was more to life than that. Jewels are nothing but sparkling stones, lent value only by human eyes. Kings are nothing but mortals in finery, lent authority by human faith. A play is nothing but words on paper, lent meaning by human performers. What is acting but creation, delusion, imitation, evocation, pretension, innovation- to spread one’s arms and raise one’s voice, to be anywhere but here, to be anyone but oneself, in that distinctive way that only you could be? The best actors perform for themselves, for the pleasure of performing, for the infinite rays and ways of the spotlight. Yachiyo grasped this- she always had. So how in the world could I leave behind a genius who’d supported my reign, studded my crown, and adorned my perfect stage? No, I’m certain- I wouldn’t trade Tsuruhime Yachiyo, even as she is now, for all the riches and fame in the world. I wouldn’t desert such an actor for the hollow light of theatres she’d never reach. Yachiyo had said it herself, long ago: beyond the borders of the stage, beyond the play- that is where true platinum shines.

Year 2, Day 19

Our relocation is complete. This quiet town will serve as my shelter and refuge, the culmination of my journey and the beginning of my noblest labour. In the past year, I took Yachiyo out on a ride at times, hoping to jog her memory through direct visual stimulus, but to no avail. Even so, it warmed my heart to see her staring in awe at the scenery rolling by as we travelled across the country. Part of me wishes I could take her around the world, changing locations daily so I could share in her wonder as we both witnessed colorful places for the first time. But then I might be seduced once more by distant delights, tempted to leave her side and rejoin shallow civilization- no, better by far to rest within an idyllic countryside, far from interference.

The facility I’ve moved Yachiyo to is expensive, but also flexible and discreet- I pay the staff to stay far out of Yachiyo’s way and let me handle her, controlling every bit of her environment to shape the course of her thoughts. Meticulously, I plan to structure every inch of her room, using the knowledge I’ve accumulated over this cumbersome vigil, until I’m able to guide her actions to the very minute, following a precise timetable. My objective is to transform Yachiyo’s life into a performance, albeit one whose artifice is unknown to the actor- while I can’t hand her a script to memorize or offer stage directions, Yachiyo’s natural genius shall automatically drive her to perform in a certain way, reacting to every cue I place, and also to my own arrival. Instinct shall prove a suitable replacement for memory, a sense of drama every bit as accurate as formal instructions, creating what would effectively be a play repeated on a daily basis, the object of which is all-importantly simple- to entertain Tsuruhime Yachiyo.

Year 2, Day 43

There is, I think, a freedom in the acceptance of emptiness, in knowing that you cannot achieve the impossible. As long as you’re trying to bring about a set result, a specific outcome, you must deal with the exhausting processes of variable-elimination and risk-reduction, like some schoolchild trying to solve an arithmetic problem with only one correct method and solution. But if you’re aiming for vaguer, deeper things, for abstract emotions and states of heart, then the routes multiply, offering you an atlas of paths. You can be creative, conniving, unbound by scripts or traditions, free to shape your stage in any way you desire. Had I still hoped to cure Yachiyo, my present method would’ve seemed counterproductive at best and condescending at worst. But now, comfortable in an awareness of our tragedy, I simply focused on the moment.

If Yachiyo was told the truth about her condition, about the one-day limit on her memory, she’d be miserable- this was an absolute certainty. Ethics dictated that I be honest, refraining from sugar-coating the truth, but I didn’t care for principles that brought Yachiyo pain, especially not after a year of failures. All I cared about at this point was making her happy, at providing her with a life she could enjoy, regardless of the means employed. Even if she forgot about these joys- no, precisely because she forgot about these joys, I had to make them flawless. If one fine day, a miracle occurred and she recalled everything, then at least she’d know that she’d spent every moment from this point onward in joy. And if she didn’t, then those twenty-four hours in which she lived would still be fresh and interesting. This was all I could bestow upon Yachiyo now, my final, endless gift to my dear knight.

Year 2, Day 116

I can now state with certainty that I’ve perfected my process, and created the ultimate stage for a play only the two of us will ever enact. The final, simplest ingredient was hope- now that Yachiyo is convinced she has a future, that more performances await, she can act with all her heart, unimpeded and peerless. Just as the Dying King could only stride forth under the illusion of tomorrow, so the ignorance I’ve wreathed Yachiyo in becomes a grand mantle, the regalia of the monarch she eternally deserves to be. If there lurked any shadows of regret in my heart, they must’ve surely vanished when I witnessed the radiance in her acting, convincing me for once and for all that I’d made the best choice. Even after I depart, even as she closes her eyes and sinks into oblivion, Tsuruhime Yachiyo will feel no fear or pain. And when she awakes, I’ll be there once again, ready to weave our tale anew. I do not harbor any doubts. I do not wish to change my ways. The bliss and love in her eyes, the gratitude in her words, the verve in her enactments- those are payment enough, a hundred times over, for all my remaining years. This is my pride. This is my responsibility. This is the proper, noble way- the path of glorious kings.

III

A loud, piercing knell jolted Akira into the present, and she realized that she’d been inspecting the journal for nearly an hour, each word inducing a period of reminiscence, particularly clear in recent times, sewn together as her days were by routine. What wasn’t part of the routine was the ringing of her doorbell, which repeated far too soon, making her sigh in annoyance as she climbed to her feet and trudged over to the door. Peering suspiciously through the fisheye, she was perplexed to see nothing but the opposite wall, only for a small strand of blonde to bob up for a moment as a hand reached for her doorbell again. Akira blinked, before realization struck and she swiftly opened the door, revealing a well-dressed woman from the city, tiny enough to barely reach Akira’s chest, but making up for it with a smouldering air of irritation that sent Akira reeling a few steps back. Slipping deftly through the newly-formed gap, her visitor marched into the apartment, paused at the center of the sole room and wrinkled her nose at the shabbiness of it all, the hastily-clumped dregs of a life spent in obsession.

“What do you want?” Akira, sleep-deprived and paranoid, was not at her most eloquent.

“Is that how you address your best- your only friend?” Otori Michiru shot her a glare, clearly wishing she could be anywhere but here, but unable to actually quit caring. Her eyes took in a host of troubling details, which Akira strove to hide from Yachiyo via makeup in the mornings, but lay utterly exposed now- dark circles, cracked lips, an unhealthy pallor and hastily-chopped hair fraying at the ends. “You’re a mess, Akira. What have you done to yourself?”

“That’s not your-” Akira briefly felt a chill, some buried remnant of survival instinct from her days at Siegfeld, and grudgingly revised her reply. “I’m fine. I can handle things. There’s no need to worry. Or to come here.”

“You’re making me seem like some nosy neighbour.” Michiru cleared a space upon the table to set her purse down, and gingerly perched on one of Akira’s two wooden chairs. “How long has it been since we talked, Akira? A year? No, it’s longer than that- you’ve been shutting me out ever since that accident. I hate it when you get like this, all stoic and single-minded, refusing to tell anyone what you’re up to, as if they’d understand how your head works.”

“I couldn’t care less about the opinions of some strangers.” Akira muttered, unwilling to take a seat, as if by standing, she could prompt Michiru’s departure. “And if you’re my friend, then you should know perfectly well how serious I am about this.”

“Seriousness and sensibility aren’t the same thing, especially not with a specimen like you.” Michiru’s tone was worse than scathing, and Akira could sense genuine frustration boiling in her eyes, anger she’d rarely seen her ex-chancellor display. “You and your damned pride- I’d thought you’d learned to be mature by the time we graduated, that you could function out there in the real world, and take people’s feelings into account. And then you throw your career away for a pointless act of goodwill, wasting more time than any sane person would, and as if that wasn’t enough, you just up and decide one day to ride off into some miserable backwater? Do you know how long it took me to track you down? Do you know scared I was when I went to your apartment and found that note, telling me not to follow you? What the hell is wrong with you, Akira?”

“You jumped to conclusions. You’re still not respecting my choices. This is what I want to do, Michiru. I’ve told you that more times than I can count. If you still insist on assuming that I’m lying or misguided or unhinged, then that’s your problem, not mine.” Akira’s voice was cold, her statements sharp and precise, like someone presenting an argument in court, but she had to stuff her hands into her pockets to conceal their trembling- seeing someone from her old life hurt more than she’d thought it would.

“And I’m saying your choices are stupid!” Michiru slammed a fist down on the table. “This- this pathetic self-imposed exile, this retreat from civilization- it’s not rational behavior! I’d still get it if you were genuinely tired of acting or unwilling to pursue a career, but that’s not you, Akira. You’ve loved the stage ever since we were kids! Every day, every moment, you’d only be thinking about the next performance. You’re a stage-crazy, aren’t you? That’s how you’ve always been. That’s the Akira I know, always marching forward, not this… whatever the hell you’ve become. It sickens me to look at you this way. I can’t bear to think of you whiling your life away, and for what? Some hopeless, mindless-”

“Michiru. Watch your mouth.” Akira’s tone had turned hostile, eyes fixing her old friend with a steely look that had made countless opponents cower. “I won’t abide any insults to Yachiyo- and besides, how could you- how dare you even say that about her? Yachiyo looked up to you, respected you- once upon a time, you used to be close. And as if giving up on her wasn’t cruel enough, now you’re acting like she’s the one to blame? Disgusting. Such disloyalty disgraces the vow we swore, the ranks we bore. Such slander is unworthy of an Edel.”

“You’re playing that card, really?” Michiru’s lips twisted into a smile, but there wasn’t a trace of mirth in her tone. “Truly, Akira, you never change. You’re still acting like we’re kids, like a promise and hard work are all we’d need to get our way. I trusted you back then, swearing to support you. And I kept my promise. I did my duty. I took you to the very top, Yukishiro Akira, and made you a king in every way. I had doubts. I didn’t always agree with you. But no matter how bizarre your decisions were, I tried to make them work, to prepare a path. And after you’d finally reaped the benefits of my hard work, you flung all your prospects away like they were trash, marching off on some self-righteous mission prompted by an accident. And now, you look me in the eye and call me a disgrace? You’ve got some nerve, Akira. If only you had the common sense to accompany it, maybe I wouldn’t be itching to strangle you right now.”

“Very well. There’s no point in slinging accusations.” Akira felt a twinge of guilt, but couldn’t bring herself to apologize- the warm, honest intimacy she’d once afforded only to Michiru now seemed like something from another lifetime. “I’ll make this simple- if you want to support me like you always have, then just let me continue living here. I don’t want or need anything else, and there’s probably no one else with the interest or skills to track me down. Go back to where you came from, pursue your dreams, live as you please, and don’t tell anyone my whereabouts, even if they’re old acquaintances.”

“It’s not that easy.” Michiru sighed, fury receding into weariness. “If I could just be selfish and forget about you, then I wouldn’t have gone to these lengths in the first place. You of all people ought to know how hard it is to leave someone you care about, even if they’re a lost cause.”

“Our situations are completely different.” Akira’s reply was impulsive, a knee-jerk reaction to words that struck a nerve. “I don’t need your help, Michiru, but-”

“But Yachiyo needs yours?” Michiru knew her too well, even if they didn’t agree. “Who are you kidding, Akira? What can you do for her when the best doctors in the world failed? What can you give her that a well-trained staff of caretakers can’t?”

“They don’t know her like I do! She needs someone… closer.” Akira shifted uncomfortably, unable to summon the verbosity that had gripped her when she’d made those journal entries. “It’s… it’s an obligation. I have to be by her side. As her senior, as her friend, I can’t run away. A bunch of doctors and nurses could never convey our past to her, never do justice to everything we’d experienced at Siegfeld. I’m the only one who can remind her of who she used to be.”

“What good are reminders when they won’t last more than a day? You might as well write a bunch of notes and keep them at her bedside table.” Michiru drew closer to Akira, peering into her eyes, as if she might steal a peek at the mind behind. “You’re usually more practical than this, Akira- even the shock of losing an acquaintance shouldn’t have distorted your judgment for this long. Something’s off, and I’m not budging until I figure it out.”

Akira turned away from her, trying to put some distance between them, though the addition of a second person to the apartment, however minuscule, made it impossible to move more than a few paces in any direction. “I’m not in the mood for an interrogation. Can’t you just accept that I’m doing this because I care about Yachiyo?”

“That patient isn’t Yachiyo.” Michiru’s voice turned hard again, echoing around the cramped room. “I knew Tsuruhime Yachiyo almost as well as you did, and better in some ways. At first, I didn’t quite understand your decision to crown her your successor, but her talents soon won my approval. I witnessed her immense potential, and helped nurture it as she grew into a king. Those petty secrets she loved to keep, those silly games of cat-and-mouse we played, all those times I advised her, or even found my perspective widened by her unique approach- I’ve got my share of memories too. And that’s why I can say that the Yachiyo we knew isn’t the same as the one who wakes up in that bed daily, with no idea of who she’s supposed to be. That cold, dismal emptiness in her eyes, the numb way she replies after learning of her predicament- it’s a far cry from the brilliance of our pearl, of the platinum you unearthed. She’s a husk, Akira, a pale imitation who’ll never embody the splendour of the original, no matter how many stories you tell her. I’d thought that basic fact would’ve sunk in by now, and yet-”

“You’re wrong!” Akira’s reply was loud enough to make both herself and Michiru flinch, but she forged on regardless, words tripping over each other as she finally found her passion. “It’s because you’ve only ever seen her in the early days, when the staff were the first to talk to her. But I’ve managed to go beyond that- I can restore her, revive her, make her act just as well as she used to. It’s as if she was with us again, as if nothing had ever happened- the Yachiyo we met at Siegfeld, the genius we found.”

“But it’s still only for a day, right?” Michiru’s words, honed with a truth Akira had strived to ignore, hamstrung every spirited assertion. “That’s as good as nothing- no, it’s actively selfish. Even if I believe that you’ve recreated the effects of a lifetime in a under a day, Yachiyo can’t process or recall everything you’ve done for her. The only reason you’re pouring so much time into this ghastly project is to satisfy your ego. You want to prove a point, to make a puppet jerk about and proclaim you’ve created life, become a god. That’s all this is, Akira- you still can’t accept that accidents happen, that talented people aren’t always guaranteed a perfect life, that plans and projections go wrong. And so you’re trying to regain control in the pettiest possible way- knowing you, you’d probably call it the duty of a king. Am I wrong?”

“I… so what?” Akira knew that if she let herself process the force of those accusations, swiftly thudding into her heart, then she wouldn’t be able to justify her stance, to express that strange, misty emotion that had driven her to all this- not selfishness, not anger, but something grander. “Yachiyo’s a king as well- did you forget? She received the crown, the blessings and curses of the monarch, and created her own legend. She was offered trust and faith, the devotion of those who could never match her natural gifts, and made those hopes the foundation of her kingdom, a worthy and noble reign. Did it not pain your heart to see her diminished, stolen of her rightful glory and struck into a cursed sleep? Did you not think she would lament to suffer such a fate, and wish dearly that she could step, if only for a day, upon the stage that loved her so? That is what I’ve given her- a dignity worthy of the past she can’t recall.”

“And what’s in it for you?” Michiru didn’t look remotely convinced. “What about your glory as a king? Can you truly claim that a life of nursing, prompting and reminding Yachiyo of the same things, over and over again, is worth sacrificing your career for? Is that fleeting bliss you give her for a day worth relinquishing the best years of your fame? Is this cheap hovel the end of your journey, after you vowed to reach the loftiest stages? Am I supposed to believe that our promise has given way to this miserable, monotonous routine? How long are you going to keep this farce up, Akira? Another year? Another decade? Till Yachiyo’s death? Till yours?”

“Probably. I don’t know.” Akira sighed, feeling a fatigue from long beyond this evening spread through her bones. “Anyway, I’m not leaving her. End of conversation.”

Michiru folded her arms, pursed her lips, and settled back in the chair, ready to be every bit as stubborn as her childhood friend. Akira debated tossing the chair out into the corridor, but felt like she might have her eyes clawed out in the process, and simply glowered at the intruder. A pointed, suffocating silence stretched on for about two minutes, before Michiru finally spread her arms and offered a compromise. “I’m tired. This place is way out in the sticks, and it’s too late for me to head back home. Let me stay overnight.”

Akira suppressed a groan. “There’s no space.”

“Oh, that’s fine. You can sleep out in the lobby.” Michiru permitted herself a tiny smirk, and the tension seemed to recede, if only by a bit. “Look, we’re not children anymore, and I’m not about to physically drag you back to the city against your will. However, I’d like to think that there’s some value left in our friendship, enough to merit lodging and a decent explanation of what you’ve been up to in the past year. Maybe you’ll convince me that your cause is actually righteous and noble. Maybe I’ll finally make you understand how this is all a massive exercise in idiocy. Either way, we’ll probably arrive at a consensus soon, so in the meantime, let’s kick back and have a civil conversation.”

“Fine.” Akira knew that arguing further would be ill-advised, and besides, it wasn’t unpleasant to see a familiar face after so long. Though she was loath to admit it, Akira had been struck at times by pangs of loneliness, hoping she could present her thoughts and feelings to something more substantial than a journal. Though they hadn’t been as close as they used to be in school due to their diverging careers in acting and production respectively, Michiru was still Akira’s closest confidant before the accident. They’d dealt with the event in markedly different ways- Michiru threw herself into her work, trying to distance herself from the shock via things she could still control, while Akira grew unable to focus on the stage, shaken to the core. They’d sought solace in each other’s company, reminiscing about old times, but had also argued more than once about the future, with Michiru insisting that Akira ought to quit beating herself up and get back on track, while Akira couldn’t accept her pragmatic, dispassionate response to the loss of a treasured friend.

In the past, they’d have kept bickering until a compromise was reached, but the demands of their careers left them with little time to talk, leading Akira to take matters into her own hands. She’d shut out Michiru’s occasional attempts to make contact, claiming that she was tired or busy, certain that her practical, sensible friend wouldn’t understand her obsession with aiding Yachiyo. And while she’d been mostly right, it didn’t ease the stress of handling everything alone. Akira heaved another sigh, annoyed at her own frailty, and slunk over to the kitchenette. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

“No thanks. You look like you’ve been guzzling diesel for the past year. I’ve got some nice black tea we can put on- Yunnan pure gold.” Michiru reached into her purse and produced an expensive-looking box. “It’s a gift from Shiori and Mei Fan. I’d have preferred to make it with better equipment and a location slightly airer than a cardboard box, but I don’t suppose we’ll get a second chance to meet if you keep pushing me away.”

Despite herself, a question leapt from Akira’s lips. “Mei Fan and Shiori… are they asking about me too? Are you going to tell them?”

“I ought to, and I want to, but I doubt they’ll succeed where I failed.” Michiru cast around for a kettle, grimacing when she found a grimy, electrical one that Akira rarely used. “At any rate, they’ve been sensible enough to focus on what they can do, and have big projects coming up. I didn’t want to worry them after you left, so I just concocted some story about you going on a trip to some obscure European country and wanting to be left alone. It’s gotten more difficult to maintain the veil over the year, especially since you changed all your contact information, but I’ve managed to quell their curiosity with little anecdotes about your sabbatical and all the cute local indie projects you’ve been involved in. I think they don’t entirely believe me at this point, but the alternative is assuming that you’re missing and I’m covering it all up, which is a possibility our dear kōhai don’t really want to consider. Still, it’s only a matter of time before they start asking around. Your former knights aren’t the type of people who’ll just forget about you after enough time spent apart, you know?”

“And yet they forgot about her.” Akira couldn’t keep the resentment out of her voice.

“Don’t start again. And besides, it’s a bit hard for them to visit when they don’t even know where Yachiyo is, thanks to a certain someone.” Michiru shot Akira an irritated look. “I’m still not clear on why you moved her here, but I’m guessing it wasn’t your faith in the country air.”

“That’s…” Akira hesitated, but if Michiru had managed to track her all the way here, she also wouldn’t have much trouble uncovering her methods, so it was best to tell her the truth- unlike Yachiyo, the person who’d known her longest wouldn’t be easily misled, no matter how well she acted. As the tea came to a boil, Akira slowly, reluctantly told Michiru about the ways and means she’d used to awaken Yachiyo’s genius again, trying to sound confident even under the heat of a judgmental stare. Mercifully, Michiru didn’t cut in during her narration, and stayed quiet for a short while afterward, pouring out the pricey tea into two slightly-cracked cups and setting them down on the table. In a silence not quite as hostile as the one before, but also far from peaceful, they sipped the rich brew, relishing the malty, creamy notes, a heavenly flavour that seemed to come from a world far brighter than the murky, shadow-lined one they inhabited.

Akira couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a taste so much, though perhaps it was partly due to the company- while Michiru was hardly pleased, tea sipped with someone familiar felt far cosier than she’d imagined, filling her with a warmth that settled deep within. It was blissful enough to unsettle Akira, a touch of temptation she couldn’t succumb to- if she melted in this happiness and flounced back to civilization, who would tend to her duty, to the obligation that only she could discharge? She had to be strong, to resist such opulent pleasures- true royalty lay not in indulgence, but responsibility. The honeyed, woody aroma of the tea wafted through the apartment, sweetness and spice making her feel both heady and awake, unsure of what to say. Luckily, it was Michiru who broke the silence first, lowering her empty cup with a rather ominous clink. “Honestly, I’m still not sure how to respond. You said that I wasn’t giving Yachiyo the respect she deserved, but it’s not like you’re doing any better. Lying to her daily, monitoring and manipulating her every thought and action, and moving to a remote location where nobody can survey or regulate your activities… it’s not a good look, Akira.”

“I don’t intend on broadcasting it to the world.” Akira drained the final dregs from her cup. “And besides, I’m only telling you this because I trust you’ll understand my reasons. Back at Siegfeld, you wove your fair share of webs, didn’t you? But it was never for self-satisfaction. You genuinely helped our comrades grow, guiding them in the right directions, helping them attain their best selves. It was always for them, for the stage we’d all stand on as comrades. I’m trying to return Yachiyo to that stage, to keep her there for as long as I can.”

“A noble goal, I’ll admit.” Michiru’s gaze bored into Akira again. “But it’s almost too noble, isn’t it? Stage girls are meant to be selfish creatures, living for their own dreams- and even Frau Platin, though bound by responsibilities, can best fulfil her subject’s hopes by aiming for the skies. The glory she gains for herself is distributed to her people, her subordinates made noble in service, her followers lent prestige by association. That is the Edel way- we serve not merely for an ideal alone, but for a collective glory that surpasses what an individual can achieve, be they human or divine. The crown is the brightest point, the throne the highest place- why, then, do you not reach upward, but confine yourself to this dismal cellar?”

“Because there’s more beauty in her eyes than the cheers of a million admirers.” Akira sighed, staring off to the side, as if she could see her successor painted in the air. “Yachiyo often asks me a similar question, wondering why I do so much for her. But how could I not, Michiru? In all my life, ever since the day we met at Siegfeld, I’ve never seen a more enthralling performer. Even at the highest levels, competing with the best talents from the country and the world, no actor has shone so uniquely. There are those with more expressiveness, those who surpass her in technical skill, those who might better capture a certain character… but none of them possess an inner world like Yachiyo’s, the cosmos that brings a narrative to life, pulling her and every viewer into a different dimension. As she grew and matured, she gained the ability to project that world at will, to turn it into a skill… but back when it was a secret, lonely place, inhabited by Yachiyo alone, I was the first to step into it. I was the first to witness her genius. Her entire life from that point on, her future reign- it all stemmed from the choice I made. I’m not trying to claim credit for her achievements- Yachiyo’s glory was solely her own, earned by effort and skill, the epitome of an Edel’s radiance. I’m not trying to project myself onto her- her love for acting was always clear, and to say she would’ve wanted to keep acting is common sense. All I wish is to let that light shine on. In her alone, I see perfection. In her alone, I find platinum.”

“You were her king first, though.” Michiru muttered, still dissatisfied. “Yachiyo was supposed to devote her life to you, not the other way around. Certainly, you had responsibilities towards her, but they were never supposed to eclipse your role as Frau Platin. The knight is not above her lord, not unless she stages a revolution and usurps the throne. That’s how hierarchies work- you either respect them or overturn them entirely. Even with all our efforts to prepare the Edels for lead roles and imbibe progressive ideas from other schools, that central fact never changed. Yachiyo was never your ruler, even after you passed on the crown- at most, you’d be fellow kings, with you as the senior monarch. And besides, do you think she’d want to see you reduced to this, discarding your prospects for her sake? She’d never want to weigh you down like that, even if she longed for the stage. Like I said, you could write her some notes or check up on her semi-frequently, and it’d be the same. This is wrong, Akira- the values don’t match up. You’re not doing this for her, or for pure idealism. If you fully believed in Siegfeld’s code, then you’d do your duty as a king and rule over the world of theatre. And if you didn’t, then you’d just move on with your life. Either way, it wouldn’t come to this. Tell me the truth, Akira. Why are you here? What do you really feel?”

Akira didn’t respond for the longest time, enough to make Michiru uncomfortable, the silence swelling past the borders of this tiny residence and folding in, making the air heavier with every passing breath. In the dim light, Akira seemed hazy and liminal, the solitary remnant of another age, older and grander, but also faraway, enough to make the monarch a stranger to herself. At times, she’d raise her glance from where she’d fixed it pensively on the table, staring at sights far beyond these dingy walls, just as she had when they were as a child, leaping up on the bars of a jungle gym and proclaiming the oath of a king. How grand she’d seemed then, how brave and resolute, cast in the glow of a dreamer who’d found her destiny, that starry path far brighter than any bloodline. To Michiru, young and uncertain, it was as clear as a sign from the heavens, like twelve eagles winging over seven hills, a call to young Romulus to build a place of glory. And yet here, at the end of it all, when their citadel stood foremost in the eyes of the world, her king still stared at the skies, questing for that sight again, as if the capital in her heart shone so much brighter than the one she’d ruled and left behind.

When she spoke at long last, there was something different about her- not the smug concession of a mastermind unmasking before a detective, or the desperate intensity of a suspect snapping under interrogation, but a subtler, stranger sort of change. “You really see through everything, Michiru- even the feelings I’d concealed from myself. You’re right- as devastated as I was by the accident, I’d been feeling disillusioned long before- almost since the day I graduated from Siegfeld. I always had the sense that I’d lost something irreplaceable, that I wasn’t myself. The accident felt nearly like a confirmation of the unease within my heart, of my fading memories of the old days. It was like everything that made me who I am, everything I’d created was being slowly erased, swallowed up in darkness like those Korosu-haunted plays. But there was no mystical explanation for it, no convenient foes to defeat- or maybe there never were. Maybe those strange demons were always our own, and we simply had the strength to fight them off back then. But now, they’ve become harder to see, formless and subtle, but no less mighty. I can’t leap into a revue and thrust my lance through the shadows- I lack the valor, the energy. I used to be a king once, illuminating the stage with my light. But after I left Siegfeld, it all felt… artificial, like a play, and not the ones we enacted, performed with all our hearts. The industry, my career, the fans- they felt farcical, pedestrian, like mockeries of my past glory. They were too plain, too soulless for me to believe in. Already, I’d begun to age and wither into a dead stage girl.”

“Akira…” Michiru stared her oldest friend, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Akira’s voice was lighter now, less hostile, and yet filled with a bone-deep weariness, as if every word fell from her lips like lead. Her eyes, now focused again on Michiru, felt empty and passionate all at once, as if she’d seen a truth she couldn’t look away from, a tunnel-vision going in circles. The girl who’d once burned so brightly was now a husk of herself, smoke upon ashes, glowing only with dull embers, the remnants of a heart and a hearth. “I… I should’ve noticed. And if I didn’t, you should’ve told me. We could’ve worked something out.”

“I was ashamed. Afraid.” Akira kept speaking in that rueful tone, tranquil like someone upon a deathbed, staring up at the dimming stars. “You’ve done so much for me, Michiru. You gave everything up for my sake, for our promise. Without your efforts, I’d never have reached the pinnacle of our world. And yet, that eternal vista didn’t move me. At the summit, I didn’t feel like a king- just a wanderer, a faceless traveller on a fleeting perch. But how could I say that to you? How could I meet your eyes, so blissful in our success, so exultant in my glory, and say that I wanted to walk away? I didn’t have the courage to face you. It was pathetic of me to deal with it in such a boorish way, but any amount of disgrace and solitude seemed easier to endure than your questions, your disappointment. And besides, you’d fulfilled our childhood promise. We’d performed the ultimate Elysion, and secured lucrative careers. You had desires of your own at this point, stages that didn’t involve me. You’d finally begun to live for yourself rather than ruling vicariously through me. If I told you about my misgivings, I feared you’d lose faith in yourself, questioning what you’d dedicated your life to. You’d worry about me and struggle with your job, and I didn’t want to be such a burden- it’s one thing to support a monarch with grand responsibilities, but entirely another to take care of a passionless shell. I knew you cared for me, but I wouldn’t insult you with my weakness. So… I ran away.”

“You idiot.” Michiru’s voice was devoid of malice or anger, to the point where neither could tell who she was chastising. “Always so self-centred, even when you’re caring for others, as if they’re roles and not people, as if your nobility could never hurt them. Haven’t you realized it yet, Akira? We’re too close for simple things like sacrificing ourselves for each other. When I gave up my ambition for your sake, I wasn’t miserable- I was happy, because I felt certain that we’d reach our dreams together. Your happiness was my happiness, your sorrows mine as well. So how could I rest easy if you’d hurt yourself for my sake? How could I stand by as you went through agony? I didn’t notice how bad things were- I’ll admit that. But just because I didn’t see your pain coming doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt me too. In this year we’ve spent apart, I’ve been more miserable than words can describe. I barely knew what to think or do. And now that I’ve finally found you, you’re saying that going back would just hurt you more? I don’t know, Akira. I don’t know what I can do to make you feel better. And I hate not knowing. I hate being this useless. Our feelings are linked together, right? So at least tell me what brings you joy.”

“I… I think I’m better now.” Akira slowly grew more certain, more resolute, though the sight didn’t quite assuage Michiru’s doubts. “I don’t know if I’m happy, but I’m not as lost or gloomy as I was before the accident. You see, Michiru… back when I was in my prime, I felt trapped. I had all the wealth and fame I’d need, but it felt cheap and gaudy, a dilettante’s tiara rather than my noble crown. My worth was measured by reviews, revenues, recommendations- those dismal metrics of the industry, sticking price tags on art, bidding for the human spirit. Perhaps it’s always been that way- my family was no stranger to that world, and yet I clung to romantic notions of transcendent, eternal plays, of poetry in motion and heaven in words. It brought me to Siegfeld, and at Siegfeld, those dreams crystallized into my moment of glory. But ever since, I’ve never felt that bliss, that noble inspiration. I feign expressions for faceless crowds, shuffle about on agency orders, mime this and that in the tradition of classics or the whims of auteurs, and all without feeling a single true emotion. It’s as if, at some point, Yukishiro Akira was replaced by an exact lookalike, a puppet with delusions of being the same person, pretty enough to glimmer in the spotlight and win the hearts of critics and crowds, but hollow in a fundamental way. The piece I was missing wasn’t large enough for anyone to notice, but that’s the tragedy of it… lauded by everyone, bathed in expectations, I pressed purgatory to my still heart. In a sense, it wasn’t so different from Yachiyo’s amnesia- I alone was missing something everyone around me had.”

“But even Siegfeld wasn’t some utopian kingdom!” Michiru, feeling decidedly overwhelmed by the magnitude of Akira’s troubles, couldn’t quite respond in a supportive way, and strove on impulse to refute her feelings. “All that glitz and glamour about kings and knights- it was a gimmick, a marketing tactic, so we’d stand out and pull in admissions. Sure, Edels have been a long tradition, but that’s the point- they’ve always existed as a hallmark of Siegfeld, an easy way to differentiate us from places like Seisho. The press, the investors, the high-class families looking to swaddle their kids in prestige- they’re the types Siegfeld caters to, lapping up all the promises and glitter, charmed by the allure of a ‘school culture’. Underneath the branding and the promotions and the general status, we were just a regular student council. Behind the fancy German names and lofty symbolism were just a bunch of young actors. That’s the essence of Siegfeld- a pretentious institution pandering to kids infatuated with stories of knights and adults nostalgic for monarchies they never lived in. It makes a nice show of shutting out reality and advertising itself as this profound dimension detached from common thought, but it’s all just an excuse to impose draconian standards on bright-eyed kids, discard the majority like rubbish under the fancy explanation of ‘supporting the king’, and employ the five who didn’t crack as poster kids, continuing the cycle. We believed in that dream, worked our hardest, and made it come true, guaranteeing ourselves successful careers. But that’s the long and short of it, Akira- what’s special was our passion, not Siegfeld itself.”

“But if that passion can’t burn anywhere beyond Siegfeld, then what’s the difference?” Akira rose again, seized by emotions she’d confined for too long. “I know that our school wasn’t any less mercenary than the industry at large, but even so, it felt different. Perhaps it was because we were children, all of us- those lofty themes and grandiose oaths struck a chord in our hearts. You can look back on it cynically now because you’re an adult, Michiru, a proper, pragmatic grown-up, insured well-enough by youthful passion that you can afford to leave it behind. You’ve turned out the way most Edels do after graduation- looking upon our past as a quirky, exotic memory and nothing more, as if all our talk of honor and duty was just playacting. After three years, we’re expected to normalize, to be reborn as regular members of society, beholden to every rule and convention of our trade. Rationally, I understand it- I know I was never really a king so much as a uniquely-branded actor. But at the time, I felt like a monarch, like someone more than human, bathed in an imperial glow. I met the eyes of my adorers and supporters, and saw in them something beyond the shallow, cosmetic adulation I’d be showered with later on. They saw me as their king, Michiru- not some star-of-the-day or some respected professional, but as a bonafide ruler, bearing their hopes and dreams. After we’d performed Elysion, their applause was the grandest feeling in the world, as if I’d validated all their faith, all the efforts they’d put in over the years. Even though they’d never stood on the stage, my performance was everything they’d ever dreamed of, and knowing that they had some small part in it produced in their hearts the utmost pride. I’ve awed bigger audiences, received even better reviews since then, but it’s never felt the same. Whoever I was, I wasn’t a king.”

“And that’s why you’re so bent on helping Yachiyo.” Michiru murmured, feeling the pieces fit together. “Because she’s the only one who came close to reminding you of those times. Because she always inhabited a different world. You couldn’t recapture that feeling of nobility, but you glimpsed it in Yachiyo, and helping her was the closest you could feel to your royal duty. Whether you did it as a king aiding her vassal or as a commoner devoting everything to a king, you were embodying the way of the Edels, the spirit of Elysion. And even now… you still see her as noble? Even in a state without memories?”

“Especially in this state.” Akira stared at Michiru, eyes flashing with a strange, near-frightening intensity. “As she is now, Yachiyo cannot be disillusioned. She cannot be burdened, as I was, by a sense of predictability and ennui. She won’t have to feel as if she’s left behind her greatest days, sailing onward in the irreversible stream of fate. Currently, Yachiyo is the Dying King, the best possible embodiment. She awakens, slowly coming to face her past. She goes upon a journey, recovering from emptiness, reclaiming every emotion- her passion, her kindness, her hope and her wisdom, until she is made complete again, aided by me. And then, as she prepares for a return to the world she left, she is stymied by death, learning it is too late, that she already lies beyond redemption. And so, the cycle repeats, beginning anew the next day. Yachiyo feels each performance as if it is her first. All the roles I bring her, all the scenarios she enacts- it’s as if she’s performing them for the first time, taking joy in the present, and in the unpredictable future she’s certain lies tomorrow. I deceive her, just as Johann Saphir deceives Franz Platin, and yet that deception too, is key to the final product, to the beauty of the play. A performance that is eternally pure, perfectly reborn… it goes beyond the Dying King and embodies Elysion as a whole. In the depths of her misery, that is what I’ve given her- a source of light that shall enthral her till the end of her days, sheltering her from an empty future. The clarity that dispels the fog around her mind, the snow that preserves and washes her clean- that is what I, Yukishiro Akira, have become, all to protect Tsuruhime Yachiyo’s imperial eternity.”

Michiru wasn’t quite how to respond, or even process it all. There was a curious double-image at work here, a bizarre disconnection between visions and reality. Akira’s skill at making grand declarations and inspiring speeches hadn’t faded, but she was still just a washed-up, desperate actor trying frantically to escape reality and recapture the joys of her youth, to which end she insisted on isolating herself from society and endlessly manipulating an amnesiac to the tune of a play she’d been obsessed with since childhood. It was farcical, morally questionable and generally pointless, but she also couldn’t think of any alternative scenario where either Yachiyo or Akira, let alone both, would be any happier. As disturbing as it was, this arrangement based in deceit and delusion was their best-case scenario, twin dysfunctions sewn into the semblance of stability. What right did she have to wrench them into a tortuous reality? What good would be served by honesty and pragmatism when they were already, in one sense, dead and drifting through an afterlife? If this was their Valhalla, remote and mysterious, a hall for valiant knights who now retold the same stories for eternity, then perhaps she ought to leave them to it. Even so, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Never thought I’d see you playing the chancellor.”

“I’m not.” Akira sounded like she was stating the obvious, though her logic had clearly leapt past easy understanding. “That’s the beauty of our play, Michiru- we’re both kings, the original and the successor, tied together by causality. The Dying King creates the young knight who’ll one day surpass him, just as I sparked Yachiyo’s genius, her path to the throne. The King, when lost and weary, is reminded of the knight’s potential, which eases the burden in his heart, giving him hope for the future. And at last, the king finds himself slain by the knight, an unavoidable outcome, but chooses to accept his demise, and passes on the crown to create a new monarch, who will undertake their own journey. That is my role, Michiru- when Yachiyo blankly rises, I paint her world anew, teaching her what she needs to harness her inner genius, the blood of one worthy to be Frau Platin. When I see her act and perform by her side, I feel my heart sing for joy, recalling our bliss at Siegfeld, the happiness I’d lost after graduation, which I now wish to experience daily. At the hour of my departure, I’m seized with regret, knowing that by dawn, I’ll be erased from her mind, deposed from my throne. But even so, I choose to believe in her, and leave as merely myself- not Frau Platin, not the king, but simply as Akira, a stranger to the patient. The next morning, I exercise absolute control over her view of the world again, and am reinstated as the king she relies on, repeating the cycle. As is Elysion not essentially a story of cycles? As goddesses, she and I create the world from scratch, and experience blissful emotions. As kings, we grow into our roles, expand our domains, carry out our responsibilities, and pass on our thrones. And overnight, we are reborn, our spirits carried forward till we meet again.”

Staring into those excited, expectant eyes, Michiru reflected that she ought to have predicted that this would happen. Akira always had a tendency to leap beyond her calculations, making decisions that had no rational basis, but were driven solely by an instinct, a king’s judgment- indeed, the appointment of Yachiyo as her successor had been one such choice. In a way, they’d come full circle, like Elysion itself- a terrible, unnerving realization that reminded Michiru of a conversation she’d once had with another genius, who’d told her the stage was sentient, subtly moving actors to its own ends, tendrils of irresistible inspiration extended across the past and future, tying everything together. It was at that time, during the Performance Festival of their second year, that Akira had sprung one of her biggest surprises, telling Michiru that she didn’t want to become an eternal star or the emperor of the theatre world, because being the grandest Frau Platin and enacting a sublime version of Elysion was enough for her. For that role, she’d devote everything. For that position, she’d burn up her life.

How Michiru had reeled back then, incredulous at Akira’s single-minded focus, a vision far surpassing her own. She ought to have known, right from that moment, that Yukishiro Akira couldn’t be anything but a king, no matter how long she lived. Even if she understood the value of passing on the crown, even if she gave the best performance of her life, she’d never forget the lustre of her throne, and the view from Siegfeld’s stage. Michiru had always thought she’d be lost without Akira, without her mission to support the king, but she’d done surprisingly well, finding a path and passion of her own- Johann Saphir, for all his loyalty, had not lain down to perish beside Franz Platin, but ventured on to complete the cycle, to crown the new king. That was what the theatre troupe she’d founded could achieve- the unearthing of new gemstones, polished to the utmost radiance, a hundred rulers coronated on stages across the world. Unlike the stage-crazy standing before her, she’d grown up. She could walk away, turning her back on these tragic fools, comfortable with the life she made for herself, far away from their grotesque rendition. And yet, Michiru couldn’t move. She couldn’t truly condemn the ruler she’d once offered everything to. Because Yukishiro Akira wasn’t twisted or broken. Of all the people in the world who relinquished their dreams, tempered their expectations, and obeyed conventions, Akira alone was true to herself. She alone remained unchanged, no matter the consequences, as clear and pristine as platinum itself. And even now, Michiru found her beautiful.

“Well?” Akira seemed to have calmed down at last, recalling their respective circumstances. “Do you understand my situation now? Will you let me continue helping Yachiyo?”

“Yes.” The word tumbled from Michiru’s lips, the first pebble in a landslide. “But… it’s not going to get any easier, is it? The facility she’s in seems pretty expensive, especially if the staff have given you a free hand. And I don’t think you’ve got anything resembling an income.”

Akira grimaced, faced with issues she couldn’t preach away. “I… I’ve got some money saved up from two years ago. It ought to last for… a while?”

“Ugh, I thought as much. You always dupe me into thinking you’ve got foresight, but all you ever do is pour a ridiculous amount of effort into some hyper-specific outcome.” Michiru felt oddly relieved to have found a weakness, a crack in the fortifications of this lost king’s castle. “You won’t be able to keep this up forever, and if you don’t eat well or get enough fresh air, you’ll only make things harder for yourself.”

“Tch.” Akira evidently couldn’t muster a reply, and the sight of her standing there, tired and lonely, set thorns pricking at Michiru’s heart, tied to vines that rooted her in place. She could barely bring herself to blink for fear that the friend she’d been chasing for a year, the person she valued most, would disappear when she opened her eyes again. Akira shifted, uneasy under her scrutiny, and opened her mouth, presumably to offer some flimsy defense, before Michiru cut her off.

“I’ll help you.”

Akira stared at her, truly surprised, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. And yet, she didn’t ask Michiru to repeat herself or doubt her words- for all the time they’d spent apart, she still knew that a vow from her dearest friend would never be betrayed. In a calm, clear tone that couldn’t quite conceal the relief underneath, she offered a natural reply. “How?”

“I make more money than I know what to do with, and I’m not under the public eye as often as my actors.” How nostalgic it felt to talk strategies again, to sit across Akira and weave big plans. “I’ll send you some cash weekly- use it to get yourself a better place to live, any resources you need, and whatever it takes to streamline your routine. I can also visit now and then, maybe help you out with some of the études and performances- I’m sure I can find angles you haven’t covered. It might not be enough to provide a proper cure, but it’ll make life easier for you, and also be a load off my mind. Besides… no matter what kind of strange, stripped-down, stageless Dying King you try to enact, the play wouldn’t be complete without a Chancellor. Someone has to inject a smidge of common sense into the proceedings.”

“Thanks. This means a lot to me.” It felt odd to see Akira smile so innocently at her after the initial hostility she’d displayed, but that was just who she was- challenge her way of life, and she’d fight back with a vengeance, but those who stuck to their convictions till the end received an earnest respect. A childish, unsubtle way of resolving things, but effective all the same- after all, she’d tugged Michiru back to that day long ago, when she’d vowed to support that valiant, brilliant girl’s wish to be a king. She hadn’t grown up at all, even if adulthood treated her far better than Akira- no matter where she went, their fates were bound, and Akira’s words ignited a blue flame in her heart, illuminating the throne once more. Deprived of their positions, thrown about by the vagaries of life, drifting with no real plans, those roles were all they had left. Upon receiving the crown, the king was burdened, and could only find happiness on the day it was relinquished… but perhaps the sufferings of a monarch were sweeter than the bliss of common folk, their royal tragedies grander than mundane, daily pleasures.

Trying not to dwell too long on her latest commitment, Michiru rose, grimacing as her stomach grumbled. “Dinner’s on you, Akira. Though something tells me it won’t be a king’s feast.”

“I’ve got some decent ingredients stocked up. I was planning to use them for Yachiyo’s meals, but I suppose we can indulge today.” Akira walked to the other end of the room, picked up an old journal, and handed it to Michiru. “Here. I’ve documented everything I’ve learned and tried out over these past two years. Familiarize yourself with the details while I’m cooking.”

“Not a moment of rest, huh?” Michiru sat back down with a long-suffering sigh, and proceeded to thumb through the pages. “Rather ironic that you’re the one using a secret journal to maintain records of a conspiracy now. Yachiyo would love this little scenario, wouldn’t she?”

“Perhaps. At the very least, it’s unpredictable, and places her at center stage.” Akira began to rummage through shelves in the kitchenette. “That’s the best any actor can ask for- the rest is up to her imagination.”

Michiru nodded, poring over those untidy, cramped lines with a sinking feeling in heart. She saw the breadth of Akira’s despair, her desperation to achieve something, anything, and all the efforts she’d made. This was what she’d endured in trying to protect a pearl. Past dismay, past morality, past the limits of her resolve, past self-interest, past logic, and further still, until she’d broken through the crushing emptiness of a lost cause and resolved to act for principles alone, for an emotion that kept her heart beating for just one moment more. Tears prickled at her eyes, though she knew not the emotion they bore. Was she heartbroken to see the misery her noble, kind Akira had endured? Was she terrified of how far that shining star had sunk, entrapped by obsession? Was she lamenting Yachiyo’s fate, the tragedy that no one beyond this room would recall her story, not even Yachiyo herself? Was she regretful of all the time she’d squandered, unable to lend a hand? Or was she happy, against all odds, to see that Akira still retained that heroic determination, the resolve she’d been so enamoured with?

“Michiru?” Akira, turning away from the pots and pans for a moment, had glimpsed her tears, and rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, I just… got a bit emotional.” Michiru dabbed at her tears, blinking them from blurry eyes until she could meet Akira’s, wide and clear despite everything she’d been through. “Akira… I’m sorry I couldn’t help you sooner. I’m sorry you had to bear such a burden all alone.”

“It was difficult.” Akira was far past varnishing the reality of her situation. “My decision was set in stone, but I was still afraid of being seen by someone from my old life. I didn’t want to be judged or mocked. I didn’t think anyone would understand or accept what I’d done…”

“Maybe they won’t.” Michiru clasped her hand, cold and thin, but one that returned her grasp with a familiar strength. “But that doesn’t matter. As long you’re certain, as long you’re living for what you believe in, you won’t have regrets. And if that’s enough for you, it’s enough for me.”

Akira smiled at her again, and for a moment, Michiru forgot all about their grim prospects, the dingy room, the smell of something getting burnt on the stove, and all the years that had slipped by and would scatter on- all that mattered was the voice of her king, soft and hoarse, but ringing with a majesty she’d find nowhere else. “Living this story shall prove worth it in the end. No matter how long it takes, I’ll always recall… I was a king.”

They needed no words after that, having found their bond again, the link between sapphire and platinum. Akira hurried to salvage the charred ingredients, and Michiru continued to pore over the journal. It was by no means a happy ending, or an ending at all, but they were together at last. The chasm between them, everything they’d have to sacrifice moving forward, the dearth of options- none of those things truly mattered. Tomorrow, they’d visit Tsuruhime Yachiyo. She’d stare at them, uncomprehending on the surface, but perhaps some instinct couched deep within her would recognize another jewel and be glad. In her mind, their separation would be immaterial, as if the first time she saw Akira and Michiru visiting together was the status quo, the natural way of things. When they began their performances, their skits and études, Michiru was certain she’d fit right in, the chemistry they’d developed in those glorious years at Siegfeld leaping to the fore again, as if she’d never missed a day. That was the beauty of the stage, the magic that enthralled both these kings- everything beyond the present was pointless, every future valid within the script’s universe, a world of dreams and adventure where any miracle could be achieved. In those moments, within those visits, even these cracked, desolate jewels could shine again. In that quiet, airy room, they were created, crowned and reborn- the Edels and their noble vows, bringing light to a hollow stage.

-fin-