The room still lived.A wide chamber, bathed in pale light. The curtains, half-drawn, let in the cool evening air. On the walls, empty frames—some hastily removed, others left hanging crooked. A withered vase sat on a dresser; books lay scattered on a low table, open to forgotten pages. Everything here spoke of a suspended daily life, of an existence abruptly cut off, yet still warm, still present.
And at the center of this life left hanging… Crusch Karsten already seemed absent.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, she slowly lifted her eyes to Otto.He stopped at the threshold. Perhaps it was the first time he truly looked at her.
Her long green hair fell over her shoulders in strands still damp. A faint golden glow lit her face, carving her features in a soft, almost fragile light.Otto stood silent for a moment, awkward in this setting that was not his own.
Crusch :— Come in.
Her voice was neither soft nor hard. It was no invitation. Only a statement.
Otto closed the door, uncertain, his fingers clenched around his hat. She did not look at him. Her gaze fixed on the window, on the falling sky, as if the stars had vanished along with her memory.
Crusch :— You leave tomorrow. For the Sanctuary.
Otto (hesitant) :— Not me. It's Emilia, Guts… I… I'm staying here.
She slowly turned her eyes toward him. He met her gaze, surprised by what he found there: nothing expected. Neither coldness, nor gratitude. Just… a strange transparency.
Crusch :— Then stay.
Otto (forcing a smile) :— I'm no strategist, you know. Nor a soldier. I'm… good at logistics. And diplomacy, sometimes. When people don't shout too much.
The smile died in his throat before it reached his face.
Crusch :— And yet, it was you who reached out your hand to me. When I was on the ground. Unknown even to myself.
He lowered his eyes. This kind of thanks unsettled him more than reproach. He didn't know where to put it.
Otto (quietly) :— It was… only natural. Only human.
A breath passed between them, stirring the edge of the curtain. She kept her gaze on him.
Crusch :— This kingdom forgets, sometimes, what that is. Human.
Otto slowly raised his head.
Otto :— Why me? You have Felix. Wilhelm. Pillars. Strong people. Me, I'm… just a bystander in the story.
She closed her eyes briefly, as if weighing each word.
Crusch :— Because you don't look at me as a fallen heroine. Nor as Crusch-sama.(pause)— You look at me as someone who no longer knows who she is. And that is what I am. Even to myself.
She rose, stepped toward the window, and stopped in the wavering shadow of the lamp.
Crusch :— I don't need a guard. Nor a guide.(she hesitates)— I need someone who expects nothing of me. Who never knew me.
She turned slightly, stepping closer to the window, the shadow of her hair brushing against the light.
Crusch :— Wilhelm, Felix… they still see me as before. Perhaps they must. I cannot. Not now.(pause)— I move forward blind. So I want someone who sees without memory. So that I might become something else… without betraying what I do not yet know of myself.
Otto did not answer right away. He looked at his hands, then at her, then at the room that still seemed to hum around them.
Otto (gently) :— I don't know what I'm worth. But I can be here. For that. If you want me to.
She turned back, slowly.
Crusch :— Then stay.
She passed by him, then stopped, just inches away. Her voice dropped, as if fearing the words might vanish before reaching their mark.
Crusch :— And write. What you see. What you feel. Even if you never show me. Keep a record.(she breathes in)— If I change again, if I lose something else… I would like at least one truth to remain. Even imperfect.
Otto stepped back, bowing his head slightly. He did not know what to add. Perhaps nothing was needed.
He walked slowly toward the door. His hand touched the handle, hesitated for a second.
Behind him, Crusch's voice—low, but steady:
Crusch :— I trust you, Otto Suwen.
He froze. Just for an instant.
Then he opened the door and stepped out, without looking back.The light of the room stayed behind him, wavering.And Otto, in the corridor, walked without a sound, as if each step weighed more than the last.
As if someone had just entrusted him with a ruined kingdom—without crown, without war, without glory.Only the duty of remembering it.
Not long after, he was in his chamber.Otto sat down.He took up the quill.
Tonight, she told me something absurd. That she trusted me.Me. A merchant who picked up the wounded the way one gathers wilted flowers after a storm.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do. So I write.Because if she forgets again, if all that we are must one day dissolve into oblivion, then someone will have to tell the story.
Not the legends. Not the versions they'll tell in ten years, embroidered with gold and lies.No.What we see. What we feel.What cannot be spoken aloud when everyone looks at you as if you should have the answer.
So here it is.
Crusch Karsten: She is calm. Strangely calm. Too much. She moves like someone afraid to disturb her own body. She speaks little, but each word carries the weight of a memory she doesn't have. It is… tragic. And beautiful. In a way I cannot quite name.She is not broken. Not yet. But she walks along the edge.
Felix Argyle: He smiles. Too hard. Too often. I think he believes that if he smiles enough, Crusch will eventually remember. He resents me for being there before him. He doesn't say it. He doesn't need to. His jealousy is gentle, sad, almost loyal.He is a wounded dog that does not bite.
Wilhelm: He is a mountain. He speaks only when necessary. He looks as if always expecting a duel around the corner. I think he respects me, a little. Or perhaps he only tolerates me as a useful tool. It amounts to the same, with him.He watches Crusch like a father unwilling to weep before his daughter.
Guts…I saw him. At the meeting.He spoke little. But the air… was heavier around him.
They say he defeated the White Whale.That he slew a Witch Cult Archbishop.And that he cut down a possessed ally.All with the same face.
They say he is a walking blade.I think he is a void.A void that advances, and everyone steps aside to avoid falling in.
Crusch does not remember him.But she looked at him… the way one watches a storm pass over the mountains. With ancient respect. And real fear.
I do not yet know if I am writing the story of a kingdom…Or of a downfall.But if I am the only one who remembers, then I will write it all.
— Otto Suwen