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"And that should be everything," da Vinci finishes. She runs an exhausted hand through her brown hair, shaking her head with a rueful smile. If Servants are truly inexhaustible, it has yet to appear in da Vinci. "You need to get some sleep. Make it look like you love being here!"
Nothing less than perfect.
Kirschtaria nods. Thanks her. She and Cerejeira have much work to tend to, strategic strike-outs and legal arguments to prepare. She must welcome the distraction, because the chair beside hers is still—
No point in dwelling on it.
He follows the curving halls of Chaldea, wandering. Thinking. This may be his last time. May be his last time walking with the humble staff and history's heroes alike. May be his last time laughing with others. He came to Chaldea to change the world, but as the record reflects— he's only managed to save it. Only after cataclysmic damage.
But Chaldea is cursed, the Animusphere have begun whispering, we've lost first Marisbury and now even our spare—
He'll convince them to keep it. He could convince the Animusphere to walk straight off a cliff. Chaldea's research is invaluable, the chances it offers are one of a kind. It's not like any of them will personally come down from their mountainous outposts.
This too, shall pass. All things come to an end.
He stops.
He visits this room once before and once after every Singularity, predicted or not. Forty seven candidates. Forty seven coffins. Almost six perfect rows of eight, save the row the farthest from the door. He drifts along the familiar path, footsteps lost in the whir of machinery and hum of electricity. Condensation fogs the coffin windows and bizarrely, he feels an impulse to reach out. Draw his finger along the cool glass. Give some sort of face to the nameless, who have long since been reduced to their numbers in the graveyard.
He doesn't. Soon, they should— they will be walking. Talking. Breathing. Won't be able to get away from Chaldea fast enough.
The silver plume of his breath dissipates into thin air. He stands where his coffin once was, the absence like a missing tooth. Ophelia was— is in the next coffin. From there, the names of his teammates dance on the tip of his tongue. Team A. His team.
"I once wondered what Marisbury was thinking when he began Team A's composition. I thought I would be unable to convince all of you to agree on a wallpaper color, nevermind saving the world," he starts. The words sink into the stillness. Disappear. He shivers. "Yet as we went through training exercises, lectures, and meals together... I found I could not imagine it any other way. I could not imagine saving the world with anybody else."
His gaze trails down to the third coffin. "I imagined each of you beside me, giving me advice. Pepe, yours always began with 'you can't possibly wear that out there'."
He wears the same silver suit he did at the Clocktower. It feels like it fit another lifetime ago. It hangs off his frame awkwardly in places, the belt requiring two more loops than it used to. Da Vinci has offered to retailor it to him, another of her one thousand talents. "Kadoc, you told me I couldn't afford to be so picky with my meals."
His lips curve into an awkward smile. Kadoc, with his clever hands, would've found perfect prey for his magecraft in Orleans. Beryl would've thrived in the darkness of London, with his smile like the gleam of a knife. He wonders if even Akuta would've found something to smile about in sun-soaked Okeanos, or if she'd tell him to wipe his off his face.
"But despite everything I've seen, even that remains a distant dream."
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"Lord Kirschtaria?"
He startles.
His forehead nearly collides with Ophelia's, who blinks at him slowly with her single eye. The other is covered by a star-shaped eyepatch, baby blue. Her hand is raised halfway to her autumnal hair, eyebrows creasing together in obvious question. "Are you alright, Lord Kirschtaria? You're about to miss the watermelon splitting."
"The watermelon splitting?" He repeats incredulously. In response, she only smiles.
He lets her tug him by the hand, surprise carrying him forward. His heart lurches as he hears the shouts of familiar voices, eyes widening. It can't be—
"You know how Daybit and Beryl are!" Ophelia lets go of his hand, her sundress streaming silver behind her. She turns a mischievous look over her shoulder. "If we don't hurry, the watermelon will be completely destroyed!"
His gaze follows the gentle slope of beach, where the tide rolls in with a soft sigh. Beryl (who's dangerous enough without the blindfold, stars above) lifts a stick high above a hapless watermelon, angling it subtly towards a watching Kadoc. Pepe and Akuta share a smile and a conversation over brightly colored drinks, and Daybit—
"It isn't them," he says. He repeats, louder, an urgent prayer— "it isn't them!"
(They look so happy his heart hurts.)
They vanish like smoke.
He stares at where they used to stand. Team A's coffins had been actively in the process of Rayshifting. Da Vinci can couch it as saving the best for last or waiting until we have the proper equipment and staff all she likes. Kirschtaria knows, in the same shiver of cold instinct that told him Olga Marie couldn't have survived the blast in the Command Room, that Team A must be no longer.
Slowly, he sinks to his knees.
His fingers dig deep into the soft sand, granules flaking under his yellowing nails. No tears come. They can't. There's only a shapeless sea of grief battering at his walls, waiting for the day they come crumbling down and it can drag him out to sea. His father's curse eats at their stone, eats at their foundation— but they remain strong, because his are the shoulders the world balances itself upon.
"Kirschtaria?" Fingertips ghost along the nape of his neck. "Kirschtaria, are you alright? It's only a simulation but I thought—"
The concern in her voice bleeds into uncertainty. One he hasn't heard in a long time. "I thought you might like to see them again."
He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders shuddering. He wants to. He wants to more than anything in the world. He wants to see Pepe share tea with Akuta and Ophelia. He wants to see Beryl and Kadoc trading insults and mockery. He wants to see—
"It's perfect, Olga Marie." He forces his eyes open, forces himself to sit back on his thighs, forces himself to look up at the endless azure sky. "Without flaw. As expected of you."
Only by carrying what you have lost to the Throne, can you hope to restore your world.
"Don't spare my feelings, Kirschtaria!" She snaps, her shadow falling over him. Golden eyes peer at him through the shadow of her sunhat's wide brim, narrowing in displeasure. "Go on, you can say it! This might be our last night together and all I've done is make you cry!"
Isn't there somebody you've forgotten?
"I was wondering where you might be." He says as he reaches for her hand. Her reply dies on her tongue as he brushes her fingertips over his cheeks, sun warmed and pinked and completely dry. "I'm afraid I have long since lost the ability to cry, but for them—"
He swallows past the lump in his throat. His grip tightens on her hand. It isn't enough to harm her. Nothing is. No other Servant on his roster could hope to scratch her. U-Olga Marie is an existence that seems to transcend everything they thought they knew about Servants.
(Sometimes, he wonders what Marisbury might have done if his daughter's attempts at becoming a Demi-Servant succeeded. If the result was this.)
"For them, these would be tears of joy. If I could save even one of them, I…" His voice gives an embarrassing crack, trembling in treachery. "There is nothing I would not do."
"I know," her voice softens, and she moves her hand to cup his face. She strokes over his cheek with her thumb, and he leans into it. "I know, Kirschtaria."
Her skirts billow slightly in the summer breeze as she takes her seat beside him, wrapping her arms tightly around him. They're pale and thin and gentle. They betray nothing of the black holes she commands, nothing of the supernova heart that powers her. He shuts his eyes, gold bleeding into silver.
Tomorrow, I don't know if I'll even have you.
In her arms, he dreams of a world where they may meet again.