Ion's grave is beautiful.

It's decorated with flowers and gifts and it's constantly cleaned so it practically shimmers. The grave gets many visitors and tourists ("And this is the grave of the late Fon Master Ion, who gave his life to aid the light of the sacred flame in his quest to aid the world of Auldrant—") and many people kneel before it, praying for all their dreams to come true and for gentle, innocent, naïve, and trusting Ion to find peace in the next life with Yulia. Some people think that his grave is the only reason for the rising tourist industry in Daath.

She visits and prays, hoping that her prayers will reach him.

Arietta's grave is simple.

It's decorated with a few bouquets of flowers and wreathes, no doubt brought by sympathetic oracle knights who had once worked under the beast mistress. It lies far to the right, next to the grave of the original Ion, who, for some reason, does not attract nearly as much attention as the replica Ion. People usually pass over Arietta the Wild's grave, and angry civilians who still despise the god generals for what they did even desecrated it a few times. Of course, the vandalizing is always stopped and cleaned as quickly as possible.

She visits and prays, hoping that her apologies will fly to her.

Sync doesn't have a grave.

As far as the Order of Lorelei is concerned, Sync the Tempest never even existed. All memory of him has been destroyed, and those who remember him are forbidden to speak of him—the disgraced Fon Master replica, they call him, their words sharp and swift and cruel. For him there are no flowers, wreathes, or bouquets; he doesn't even warrant a small tombstone. His body was burned upon recovery, along with all signs of his existence. It's cruel, but it's also necessary—or so the Order of Lorelei believes. Simply put, his name is mud.

She can't visit him, but she does the next best thing; she visits his favorite place.

She wanders through the cathedral, humming and absentmindedly dragging her hand over the cool stone wall. The girl wanders until she reaches her destination: a small, closed off garden—a secret place—his secret place.

She closes the door.

She kneels.

And she prays.

A few moments pass, and then—

"Anise!"

The puppet mistress, now age 16, smiles, stands up slowly, and turns around, opening her chocolate brown eyes.

"I'm coming, Florian."

i remember,

even though everyone

else seems to have

forgotten.

i remember.