Not that final meeting/In the twilight kingdom

T. S. Eliot, 'The Hollow Men'

The last memories that etch – in the final moments, who will you become? Whose name will you beseech, as you sink into the void that becomes us all, in the end, in the beautiful end –

"Triton?"

So she says, so as she invokes the son of the sea god, commander of waves and the blue ocean, and washed up in the sea of flames –

The sea of Faith was once, too, at the full

"Mana," And the voice is a broken one, one of a man having found his dream at last and seeing it small, fragile, able to be cupped and caressed in the palm of his hand. "Do you remember?"

When the season of the forget-me-not comes, I'll call you

"I -"

From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire

Around them, the world collapses in white flame.

The world is trying to announce the end

No one can stop it anymore

- so it begins.

Darkness.

Darkness so honeyed and sweet that one can taste it – and what is this, then? Purgatory or paradise? The dark is cool, comforting – wrapped around like a cool blanket, a dripping chunk of saccharine ice in the midst of the hot summer –

They were innocent back then, he and the boy and the girl; innocent and gullible and born to play – they poked at beetles in the road and danced around cracks in pavement as if casting a spell. And he remembers, even then, the heavy weight of the silver cross glittering on high.

"Triton."

And she had called him that even then, a foolish pet name that he loved, because he loved that she loved.

"Where are we?"

Mana's eyes were always – always that, the deep red-maroon that made him think of cherry wood and the crumbling rust color of smooth, worn rocks on the beach. Kind. Gentle.

"We're together." He reaches out to tuck a lock of her hair behind one ear, and is surprised by how his fingers tremble as they near the translucent white skin. Still fragile, he notices, still thin and glass-delicate.

"That's all that matters, then?" Mana smiles. "It's been a long time since we've been together."

"Right. A long, long time."

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

And this – this is the curious thing, because to him Mana's eyes hold no more promises. In his dreams her eyes are warm, but here he can feel the warmth no longer, because here it is cold.

"Do you feel that?" He murmurs, as Mana lies on his chest with her ear against his heart.

"What?"

"The cold." A cold unlike any he's ever felt, even in the Algerian desert at midnight, alone on the sand dunes with the moon. This cold is a slow mover, seeping into the core of his bones like an icy cancer.

"I can't move," he breathes.

Mana crawls closer. "That's fine. We have time, don't we?"

He shuts his eyes, and Mana places her lips below his jaw, her hands grasping at his flaxen gold locks. The fingers – little white fingers with rounded nails –

The fingers are cold as ice.

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

He thought, once, that when he found Mana the world would be right again. And now – how foolish! What a naïve thought, how idealistic of him – and he thought he had thrown away Ideal a long time before, crushed it beneath his boot like a dying stub of paper and smoke. Left it wallowing in its own ashes. A hypnotizing word, ideal. One that promised so much and gave so little.

Mana's fingers, in his hair, are deceptively gentle. She braids the flaxen strands into flat plaits, folds flowers between the woven locks and weaves her own peach-pink hair in; by the power of her will and skillful fingers she folds them into a single being, joined at the head, hands gently laced together.

There is no mystery of the world; and if there is, it no longer should matter to him. Because here there is no pain, and no suffering – only Mana.

"Tell me," he would say, "about your childhood."

"There is nothing to tell," she would answer. "I was young. I loved the people around me. And then I died. What is there to tell?"

There is more, he wants to tell her. So much more. I've read the diaries, I've known the dreams. This is what I have been dreaming of.

Is it fulfilling? Is this dream what you sought?

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Tell me about your childhood.

There is nothing to tell.

There is something.

Nothing.

Something. Something must.

No.

You truly remember nothing?

I remember the sun-dappled forest. I remember mother's eyes, so warm; I remember her swollen stomach and the sun on her skin, reflections so clear and sharp like knives –

Her skin was?

You're trying to trick me. I know what you are, Triton. So sneaky. Your father hated sneakiness, you know.

You don't know my father.

You didn't have a father. You washed up in the sea, alone.

But you were there.

This really isn't the Triton I know! Everyone has changed. You, most of all.

And you?

And I?

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper

Tell me about your childhood.

My what?

Childhood, Mana, childhood.

I thought you would say my life, because I have nothing else.

Mana?

Hmm?

I love you. You know that, right?

I know.

…

Were you expecting me to say that too, Triton? That I love you.

Maybe. Maybe, I was.

Then perhaps you'll be disappointed.

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair –

Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise

Fling them to the ground and turn

With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:

But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

See what you will here, here among the remains – but know this, if you are to know at all – for Life is, Thine is –

Know that the girl loved me, and I loved her –

But to what purpose? To what end did we love each other, so desolate and forlorn as we were? We are two lovers separated by a river of stars, and here there is no bridge of sparrows to guide us home. Here we are two lovers standing still, no vial of poison to be found. Here we are, two lovers standing, still.

Still.

Remember this, if you remember anything at all – that life is very lonely. Know that something in man warps when he loses sight of the dream, of the green light. Know that to give: to still have something to give, that is a blessing and a luxury;

(I have nothing to give, nothing at all)

But this love, will you take it? Or will you hold it in your hand and crush it very small, crumple it with your palms and press until nothing remains?

Why we still cradle this love in our hands, trying so very hard to keep it alive, when the embers are barely glowing upon the coals and our hands are so very cold – why do we still cradle this love to our bosoms and refuse to let it free?

Life is very long.

Sieh, die Sterbenden,

sollten sie nicht vermuten, wie voll Vorwand

das alles ist, was wir hier leisten.

Once, we were the funeral parlor.

We had nowhere to put our dead, because they were piling up at our feet. We had no room to bury our dead, even as the living tramped across our land. We had no water to wash them; no dignity left to clothe them with.

We sang a song of destruction and survival; we sang a song of hope.

To neglect the dead is the greatest sin. We have done so, far too many times to count. We have taken their lives when they were dead in spirit – we have used them, to shore up the foundations of our world – we have shot them, filled them with burning metal when they were already dead.

To remember the dead is the greatest kindness.

Once I was. But what am I now?

These are all copies of my wish, "Harmony."

No one, not even him, lost their motives, blurred intentions.

Within the trampled corpses, that's where it was

A distorted world –

He feels the tug first in his gut, a deep and twisting ache. A grimace must have appeared on his face, because Mana stops – whatever she's doing, he doesn't know – to clasp his hands and look into his eyes with worry.

"What's wrong?"

Your eyes, he thinks. They're red again. Blood-red.

"I – you didn't feel anything?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"Then maybe I was -"

Dreaming? One can't dream, not in this world. If this is even a world, at all. Mana, right now, is his world. Mana of the blood-red eyes.

"It'll be fine, Triton," she cooes. "I'll take good care of you."

"Mana?"

This isn't –

"Subject has showed first signs of response to stimuli. Time: 21:32."

"Charted."

"It took us forever to get this far."

"Didn't it! And for what, too…"

"Don't question them. Never question them. We give them what we want and we live like happy, blindfolded birds, got that? No questions."

"I understand."

"Good." Frenzied footsteps. "It's not a perfect job, I have to admit. The hair color and the skin are all wrong. Anyone could tell at a glance."

"The vocal recognition program confirms success."

"That is something to be proud of."

"When are we going to bring him back?"

"When Central Command gives the order. It shouldn't take much more time. We have signs of brain function – so, I think, it will be time soon."

"Triton?"

He blinks, hard. "I think – I don't think we can stay here anymore, Mana." Because they are trying to bring me back, and I don't want to go back, nor – do I want to stay, here, with her?

Where else is there to go?

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

They walk.

They walk on, and on, and on – Mana's hand enclosed in his, so small, so delicate and lovely, this hand with palms smooth and soft and lily-white, like a bird in his grasp. Still the darkness stays and light eludes them, and all he can see is Mana's face and Mana's eyes, glowing red like two hot coals embedded in the sand.

For the last time, he asks.

Das Vergissmeinnicht, das du mir gegeben

hast ist hier

Do you remember?

Ah, so you're asking again. I hate it when our conversations go like this. It feels like neither of us has said anything.

So do you remember?

I –

I need you to.

I remember the sun-dappled forest, I told you. I was young then, and I was looking – looking for anything that I could add to my collection. And there was something sharp on the floor before me, and I reached down and cut my finger, and blood welled up – you know the rest.

That's not all.

No, it isn't. But –

Who is the third who always walks beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Mana!

Just – before you go, Triton – God, I love you, I love my brother but he's not you, Triton, don't listen to her, she's –

Mana, I –

Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone

"You recognize, of course, that Mana is gone?"

The virus licks her lips, plays with her hair, blinks its blood-red eyes.

"You're cornered, Tsutsugami Gai. The men who made me – they toyed with God, they did, and now they pay the price. You pay the price. You all pay the price."

"She is…?"

"She was never alive, you idiot. Don't you see that? Oh, no, because no matter how much you pretend to be strong and stand tall, you're still that scared, sniffling little boy that we found on that beach! Keep pretending, fake thing, there's no one left for you to fool."

He hardens his features, the only armor he has against these slicing words. "Give her back."

"Oh, now you want her back? You never valued her. For what did you fight? Bring back the promise of a girl that never existed? You disgust me, Tsutsugami Gai. Can you fall lower than this?"

A yes-no question: for a split second he thinks that is the answer bubbling up in his throat, but it is only silent breath escaping dry, parted lips.

"You can," Not-Mana hisses. "Soon you will be worse than dead."

I already am, he thinks.

Not-Mana reaches for him. The frost creeps in, immobilizing him and holding his feet fast to the ground. She stretches out her hand and the pale white fingers pierce his chest, leaving icy splinters impaled in his fevered skin. This is pain like he's never felt before – a cold, cool burn, drowning in bitter nothingness.

"And I find here a true Void," breathes Not-Mana, nauseating sweetness dripping from her voice and staining the floor in blood-red. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing is here."

She pulls with both hands, rips the fiber of his being in two. Blackness creeps in at the edge of his vision, and with the last of his focus he watches as she paints her lips with a stain of crimson –

The sound of waves. That is what he hears. Waves, crashing against the shore, thundering foam and spray filling his throat;

Was what you tried to protect with your hands

Someone who you loved?

Staring at your hands awash in red

You finally recognize your sins

And the stupid things you've done as mistakes

And you learn that your tears are ever-spilling

Quotes from: Matthew Arnold, Robert Frost, Rainer Maria Rilke, and most of all T.S. Eliot. 3

Guilty Crown needs more love. A lot more.