Child at Heart
Epilogue
We didn't understand.
When he died he looked so innocent, so beautiful, it was hard to believe he had ever tried to harm any of us. And he never did, really, he had only struggled for his survival as well as Mokuba's.
We didn't understand. We didn't understand that Seto gave up all his dreams for the sake of Mokuba. When he was ten he was adopted. He could have gone to medical school if he wanted to, but then Mokuba would be helpless. He needs money for medical school. He loses it, he doesn't earn it. And so Seto had given up on this dream and became something he had most loathed; a business boss. To make money as soon as possible for Mokuba's sake. Everything was for Mokuba. So when Mokuba died everything he lived for died.
We didn't understand. We didn't understand what it is like to live for someone else. We never had to. We laughed for the sake ourselves, cried for our own despair. We never poured our soul for someone else. We never had to survive for someone else. For Seto, death would have been easier.
If Nkil hadn't come back, would Seto be gone? Would he have fallen asleep and never woke up? Perhaps, perhaps not. As Seto had always told us, what is the use of what ifs in the past? The what if is for the future. The past already happened, nothing can change. Seto had spent the last days trying to search for himself again. He had lost everything, and was trying to recover them. He tried to find his heart. His happiness. And most of all, he tried to find his soul.
When we truly knew Seto, it was too late. Pegasus showed us a manuscript notebook. Seto had worked on it during his stay at Duelist Kingdom. It was a violin concerto, with flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, French horns, English horns, timpanis and cymbals. There were violins and violas, cellos and basses, trumpets and trombones, tubas and harps. All of them, transposed correctly.
The beginning was sad. It was a sweet and slow melody, filled with a strange harmony that infer to memories, as if someone was fondly remembering past dreams. For a while the melody continued, filled with longing, and there was an abrupt change. This time it was sneaky, filled with laughter, as if a child was playing pranks on someone. We could almost hear his laughter, his giggling, sneaking a bite of something when his mother wasn't looking. The French horn and the trumpet blasted their joy. The violins joined. The timpani joined.
Then, there was a moment of frenzy, as if the composer didn't know where he was going. This way, he was uncertain. That way, he was still. Then, a huge downturn from the cellos, and all the happy times were over. Fear, rage, sorrow and despair, as the horns and the violins clashed together. There was doubt, and then all faded into quiet.
Trumpets started. Cymbals began. The soloist played triumphantly, as if winning a war. Then there was more, cymbal after cymbal, as the violin went on winning. There was a huge crash, and then all that was over. Doubt returned. The search for hope returned.
The ending was sad. It was a sweet and slow melody, filled with a strong harmony that infer to memories, as if someone was fondly remembering past dreams. For a while the melody searched, searching for something that wasn't there. And finally the music slowed, the music softened, the music stopped, the music ended. The concerto was finished. Just as Seto was.
Praise! Praise him! The audience cried. The violinist bowed at Carnegie Hall. Praise the violinist! Bravo!
The violinist stepped down and shook hands with the the conductor. Pegasus and Cecilia sat beside us on the balconey. We watched as the crowd begged for another piece, refusing to stop clapping so the violinist can come out and offer a free piece. What a marvel! The piece was beautiful! The violinist must be a genius! Such technique! Such musicality! Such emotion!
But the violinist didn't come out. The audience had no choice but to disperse.
The next day, the concert was mentioned in the newspapers. It praised the violinist. It praised the composer. It praised the orchestra. It praised the concert.
The people cheer. But they don't understand.
Epilogue
We didn't understand.
When he died he looked so innocent, so beautiful, it was hard to believe he had ever tried to harm any of us. And he never did, really, he had only struggled for his survival as well as Mokuba's.
We didn't understand. We didn't understand that Seto gave up all his dreams for the sake of Mokuba. When he was ten he was adopted. He could have gone to medical school if he wanted to, but then Mokuba would be helpless. He needs money for medical school. He loses it, he doesn't earn it. And so Seto had given up on this dream and became something he had most loathed; a business boss. To make money as soon as possible for Mokuba's sake. Everything was for Mokuba. So when Mokuba died everything he lived for died.
We didn't understand. We didn't understand what it is like to live for someone else. We never had to. We laughed for the sake ourselves, cried for our own despair. We never poured our soul for someone else. We never had to survive for someone else. For Seto, death would have been easier.
If Nkil hadn't come back, would Seto be gone? Would he have fallen asleep and never woke up? Perhaps, perhaps not. As Seto had always told us, what is the use of what ifs in the past? The what if is for the future. The past already happened, nothing can change. Seto had spent the last days trying to search for himself again. He had lost everything, and was trying to recover them. He tried to find his heart. His happiness. And most of all, he tried to find his soul.
When we truly knew Seto, it was too late. Pegasus showed us a manuscript notebook. Seto had worked on it during his stay at Duelist Kingdom. It was a violin concerto, with flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, French horns, English horns, timpanis and cymbals. There were violins and violas, cellos and basses, trumpets and trombones, tubas and harps. All of them, transposed correctly.
The beginning was sad. It was a sweet and slow melody, filled with a strange harmony that infer to memories, as if someone was fondly remembering past dreams. For a while the melody continued, filled with longing, and there was an abrupt change. This time it was sneaky, filled with laughter, as if a child was playing pranks on someone. We could almost hear his laughter, his giggling, sneaking a bite of something when his mother wasn't looking. The French horn and the trumpet blasted their joy. The violins joined. The timpani joined.
Then, there was a moment of frenzy, as if the composer didn't know where he was going. This way, he was uncertain. That way, he was still. Then, a huge downturn from the cellos, and all the happy times were over. Fear, rage, sorrow and despair, as the horns and the violins clashed together. There was doubt, and then all faded into quiet.
Trumpets started. Cymbals began. The soloist played triumphantly, as if winning a war. Then there was more, cymbal after cymbal, as the violin went on winning. There was a huge crash, and then all that was over. Doubt returned. The search for hope returned.
The ending was sad. It was a sweet and slow melody, filled with a strong harmony that infer to memories, as if someone was fondly remembering past dreams. For a while the melody searched, searching for something that wasn't there. And finally the music slowed, the music softened, the music stopped, the music ended. The concerto was finished. Just as Seto was.
Praise! Praise him! The audience cried. The violinist bowed at Carnegie Hall. Praise the violinist! Bravo!
The violinist stepped down and shook hands with the the conductor. Pegasus and Cecilia sat beside us on the balconey. We watched as the crowd begged for another piece, refusing to stop clapping so the violinist can come out and offer a free piece. What a marvel! The piece was beautiful! The violinist must be a genius! Such technique! Such musicality! Such emotion!
But the violinist didn't come out. The audience had no choice but to disperse.
The next day, the concert was mentioned in the newspapers. It praised the violinist. It praised the composer. It praised the orchestra. It praised the concert.
The people cheer. But they don't understand.