Coppelia’s casket
The flowing tears have already dried up
Solitude starved for blood
Death dances, smelling of angel down
In a town where the black sun never sets
Everyone works silently with an air of deception
I cannot meet you
I cannot meet you here
God, our savior
Coppelia’s casket
People are dolls tired of dancing
The lamb on the altar
Where is the mechanical dream headed?
Coppelia’s casket
O light awakened from the darkness
The lamb on the altar
Where is the dream with the broken spring headed?
Noir…
It is the name of an ancient fate.
Two maidens who govern death.
The peace of the newly born,
their black hands protect.
[Lost Kitten]
There we go.
Let’s go.
What are you doing?
I’ve finished checking us in.
Hey, get in line!
Please…
Thank you so much. You’re always so good to us.
– There’s no one here who knows his name. – Thank you so much. You’re always so good to us.
– There’s no one here who knows his name. – Thank you.
Thank you.
He doesn’t seek any compensation whatsoever.
He has just devoted himself to the people here.
For years, for decades…
Many people idolize him, calling him a saint.
Ex-KGB, Yuri Nazarov. That’s who he really is.
There was an ethnic minority called the Tashkil
who were slaughtered in an old Soviet Union concentration camp.
And the one who ordered the execution was Nazarov.
In time,
he quit the KGB and disappeared, leaving everything behind.
No one knows why.
And now, he’s a saint to the destitute.
Our clients are the surviving people of Tashkil.
Though the man is probably doing this as atonement,
I guess the hatred of those who were murdered
can’t be erased so easily.
It’s a simple job.
Mireille…
What is it?
I’m going out for a little walk.
I’m back.
You were out for quite a while.
What’s that?
Did you buy dinner or something?
Hey, what the heck are you thinking?
Really, what the heck are you thinking?
That cat…
You’re not thinking of taking it all the way back to Paris, are you?
This cat’s name…
If…
If he has a name, then he’s not like me.
Then he’s just lost.
I don’t have a name.
All I have is a lie called Kirika Yumura.
It’s all the same to me.
It doesn’t change the fact that you’re part of a much bigger lie.
But…
I’m pretty much like you too.
We’re both being dragged around in the dark.
To get the real answers, we’ll have to ask them… the Soldats.
The man within the man.
The love within the love.
The sin within the sin.
The hermit told unto the sinner, the Soldats is with truth.
The Soldats…
I don’t know what that means at all.
But I will find out.
What is your name anyway?
Prince Myshkin…
Prince Myshkin?
Yes, Prince Myshkin.
That’s his name.
So, he’s your cat.
He went missing a couple days ago.
Have you been taking care of him, Miss?
Oh no, it wasn’t anything like that.
Please accept my gratitude anyway. Thank you.
Well, then.
Goodbye, Prince Myshkin.
It seems the Prince is saying that he will miss you.
Then…
What’s wrong?
Mister?
Please, please hang in there.
Mister, please hang in there. Mister!
He has been pushing himself for far too long.
I warned him many times.
But he won’t give any thought to his health,
always just working for others.
There’s nothing more I can do for him.
He doesn’t have very long to live.
Not long.
Balkutsk, 1951.
We heard from Dr. Svenson that you saved his life.
Thank you.
Thank you so much. Truly, thank you, thank you.
Thank you for saving him.
In the end, this is my only chance.
If I don’t do it now,
I won’t ever…
Are you feeling all right?
Are you all right?
Get well soon, okay?
Play with us again, okay?
Play with us, okay?
Yeah, and cook for us again too.
Oh, I wish I could have some now.
It’s so delicious!
So get well soon, okay?
Oh, guess what…
What is it? What’s wrong?
It’s got to be a family picture, right?
And from the looks of it, I suppose this boy would be Nazarov?
If it’s 1951, that’s about right.
I’ll search for Balkutsk as a geographic location.
But now I know a little bit more about you.
You excel at assassination techniques,
you’re well-versed in the ways of the underworld,
and you speak various languages,
but you have no knowledge of Russian literature.
Russian literature?
Prince Myshkin is the protagonist of Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot”.
He’s the embodiment of a pure and innocent soul.
A pure and innocent soul…
That’s strange. There’s no place called Balkutsk anywhere.
I see.
Let me just say that no matter
what kind of person Nazarov had turned out to be,
it wouldn’t have mattered to us.
Nazarov is an idiot.
No matter how kind he is to the destitute,
it doesn’t resolve anything.
It only serves to satisfy himself. And even the destitute…
I know that.
I think Nazarov knows it too.
But there’s nothing he can do.
He’s just waiting for the snow to fall.
Snow?
Yes…
For the snow to pile up.
Balkutsk used to be the home of the Norga.
In Stalin’s era, the Tashkil assaulted the village,
and now, not even its name remains.
So Nazarov is a Norga.
They’re both ethnic minorities,
but the Norga and the Tashkil have long hated each other.
Even though the times changed, they kept on killing each other.
At this point, we can’t tell
which is the cause and which is the effect anymore.
Many, many months and years have passed
since the massacre at the concentration camp.
I can’t even imagine what’s been going through his mind.
What do you want to do about this job?
Being left with a bad aftertaste would be rather…
And if he’s dying from an illness, we needn’t go to the trouble…
I’ll do it.
This job…
I’ll do it.
The soft touch
Finally made me realize how cold my cheek was
Like waking up in the morning
And noticing the birds chirping for the first time
Suddenly
I don’t know anything yet
What my heart is seeking
I don’t know
I was always looking up at the sky
Like this, since who knows when
I would send my thoughts to right below that cloud
[Preview] [At the ends of the hot sands]
[A bond of hatred that] [cannot be rent asunder]
[A thread of blackest black] [binds the two together]
[The Black Thread of Fate]